


red hands

by reveries_passions



Series: red hands. [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Basically No Fluff, Blood, Brief Smut, Descriptions of Injury, Enemies to Lovers, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Heavy Angst, Knife Wounds, Knives, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mentions of Sexual Assault, Mentions of War, Minor Character Death, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Post-War, Slow Burn, Violence, World War III, dead bodies, death mentions, descriptions of fires, descriptions of illness, minor homophobia, other weapons like smoke grenades and tear gas, puke, starvation/malnourishment, the slowest of burns, vague elements of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 05:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 38
Words: 132,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14805035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveries_passions/pseuds/reveries_passions
Summary: “I’ve never told anyone,” Harry murmurs, voice so soft no one else would be able to hear, if it wasn’t just the two of them.“But you’ve told someone,” Louis says firmly. “And that’s not gonna fucking happen around here. You don’t speak a word of it, or someone’s going to kill you, and we can’t let that happen.”*a dystopian au in which harry, an ex-soldier who’s escaped from his government run camp, accidentally stumbles across the biggest rebel movement in the country, and louis, one of the rebellion’s mysterious leaders who appears to hate him, seems to simultaneously have an obsession with keeping him alive. or: harry is wanted for treason, niall hasn’t changed in four years, liam is always smiling, and louis is angry. like, really angry.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> its finally here!! 
> 
> its taken me hours to even set up this draft. i have not slept before 3am in the past two weeks. thats how much this fic means to me. she's my pride and joy; i have spent a year working on her and i am so glad i can finally share her with the world!! 
> 
> obviously i had help from so many people in making this fic possible, but i can only name a few. [angie](https://rosepetalnails.tumblr.com), [sonja](http://louisflamboyancy.tumblr.com), and [becca](http://bunnyteethies.tumblr.com), you three beautiful betas are my heroes and this wouldn't have been possible without you. 
> 
> my amazingly talented artist [fran](http://mrsadfran.tumblr.com), i am so lucky to have been able to work with you!! thank you so much for your incredible hard work!!
> 
> thanks to emma, keely, and liv for turning this fic into a meme. 
> 
> i do have to include a brief warning: this fic follows a post war storyline and discusses a government coup. most of the things in the tags are touched on briefly but there will be a fair amount of violence so please read the tags carefully!
> 
> title from [red hands](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1bt-FHaFVH8/) by walk off the earth. give it a listen. 
> 
> find me on tumblr [here](http://dystopianharry.tumblr.com).
> 
> \- bella xx

He's 12 when he first hears it.

The droning whine of a helicopter overhead, some type of foreign audio blasting over an intercom.

It washes over him in a way that he can’t explain, but he thinks it hurts, and he thinks it means something bad is going to happen.

They don’t do anything. They’re children. They’re not _supposed_ to do anything. So they sit and they wait, and then it’s too late.

*

He’s 16 when the war takes his neighbours.

The gunshots take the Jones’ next door, and the armed men take Anna, the only other girl his age, and the dogs tear apart Mr. and Mrs. Edison, and all the while Harry hides.

He _hides._

At some point the soldiers find his hiding place and he’s ready, he’s so ready for it to end, ready for the man in front of him to pull the trigger; all he can do is pray that his sister and the baby cousin he’s supposed to be looking after aren’t watching, pray that somewhere, his parents are looking down on him and thinking ‘you did well, Harry’.

And then they put him on a truck and he tries not to listen to the baby screaming somewhere far away.

When the sun goes down, the gates open to the new life he’s supposed to live.

_*_

He's 18 when the epidemic takes over the camp.

It starts out as welts, and then the welts turn into rashes, and the people scratch and scratch and then their skin is gone, and people aren't people anymore. They're raw lumps of muscle and blood and skin and shells of the ones they used to be.

And when it gets dark, they finally sleep, and they don't wake up.

And the ones who don't sleep?

They get angry.

They get angry and they scream and Harry refuses to cry because he’s not weak, not after everything. And he knows that if he lets himself cry, they’ll kill him.

The opportunity he’s been waiting for in all his three years here arises soon enough, proposed by a loved one who insists they’ll escape, if he can only get a hold of a lighter. So he does.

That's all it takes for Harry’s world to come crashing down around him in the form of a burning tent and a screaming squadron and he should be relieved.

 _What was he supposed to do?_ he asks himself when the smell of smoke has faded and he's in the dark woods leaning up against a tree trunk that's crawling with ants and he's alone and he can hear the soldiers searching for him and he's _terrified._

And so he keeps running, and he keeps running, and he keeps running.

*

He's 22 when he unexpectedly stumbles across the remnants of a city called London.

 


	2. PART ONE: THE CITY, THE ACCIDENT, AND THE REBELLION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's cold.

**january**

  

Harry is on his third pair of boots this winter.

The first pair was lost in the first big blizzard. He'd been huddled against a tree for hours and finally, when he thought the snow had calmed, he'd stood up and been knocked over by his weakened legs and the force of the strong wind. He'd fallen, and when his senses came back to him the shoes weren't on his feet anymore and it was pitch black outside. He'd wondered how he'd fallen, and then, when it was light again and he could rest, how to get the feeling back in his toes so that he could get moving again. He'd exchanged ten cigarettes for a pair of old boots from a dealer by an empty railroad track and ignored the frostbite forming in his toes.

He'd lost the second pair crossing a lake. It was freezing and the ice was sturdy and then, suddenly, it wasn't and that was how he went crashing into the water, that was how that pair practically disintegrated because of how worn they were and that was also how he’d lost half his food. When he managed to get across it took him more time than he had to spare to rid himself of his soaking wet clothes, and another hour to muster up the energy to wrap his plastic tarp around his shoulders. He spent that night shivering near-naked in an open field, and that was when he began to doubt his chances this season.

Now, well. He's on his last pair now, stolen off some poor dead man, and he really can't afford to lose this one. Not when it’s only January and he has a solid three more months of lengthy, harsh winter to survive.

He's not totally concerned. Blizzard season has passed now and has been replaced by air that stings and stabs, but he'll take wind over snow any day. Of course, it turns his fingers and toes blue, freezes tears on his face, and makes his nights even more terrifying than they already are, but all he has to do is keep moving. He's been living inside an abandoned car on the freeway for the past couple of nights, just so he's protected from the wind and he's protected from the men in green--those being a lot worse than the wind. It's in this abandoned car where he lets himself eat what’s left of his food supply; two saltines and a scoop of canned tuna which he seals with a sheet of tinfoil. When he's bored he paints his nails with his sister's old black nail polish. He contemplates living here for the winter, in the nice homey warmth and secureness of this lonely car, but then remembers the rules he’s set for himself. Staying in one place for too long will kill him. And so even when he's safe inside this car, he wiggles his toes in preparation and he writes in his journal the words only he will ever read, and if he’s lucky, in the afternoon, he manages to get a little sleep, a little peace of mind. And then when it gets dark he's on full alert again.

He's not sure why his body always insists on being alert at night when his mind is positive no one will ever come. He knows he's close to some town or city, but he's not close enough to any camps to have to worry about patrols--or worse, Rebels. And it's not like he's defenseless–he's been carrying around a knife since the fire–but at this point, he's not sure if he wants to encounter another Brit or not. Maybe if he ever he finds a long-term place to live he can spend his nights sleeping alone, safe, with nothing but his thoughts and no one but himself. Because he ruled out finding his family again a long time ago, and there's not another living person he'd rather be with that he's not certain is already dead.

Harry never knew the country was so full of trees before all this. He can count the amount of times he's encountered a big city in the past three years on one hand. He tries to avoid them based off of the few street signs he sees because they tend to be havens for the sick if they aren’t camps, and he'll be damned if he's experiencing that again. (He'd lost another pair of shoes that time, stolen in a mugging. He’d also chipped a tooth). Trees are easy to find and Harry has learned that where there are trees there is also safety. Shelter from shit weather and shelter from the soldiers. Shelter from the sky that seems to taunt him when everything else is silent.

As for the faded road signs, the only thing they really tell him is that if he keeps walking in that direction, it'll take him straight to...London? Possibly. He doesn't want to end up in London. London is probably the  _ worst  _ place to be, especially for one with no food, no water, and no car. 

Harry’s never really been a car person. Never had time to learn about these things. He knows how to hotwire one and he knows how to siphon gas but that’s about it, and so he knows the car he's sitting in is a black Range Rover and its engine is dead, but he doesn't really understand much else.

It's morning two of sitting in his car when he makes the decision. He'll leave when the sun's directly overhead. It allows him time to prepare while still giving him a good few hours to scavenge and find another location before it gets dark.

In the time it takes for morning to pass, he eats one more cracker.

When the sun roof's glare bounces off the grimy leather seats, he opens the door.

*

By now, Harry's learned that there isn't just one kind of cold.

There's wet cold, which is probably the most manageable. When the air is moist and damp and it sleets or rains. He has no way of measuring the temperature but he’s positive that means it's warmer, if even only slightly.

There's normal cold; when it’s kind of moderately snowy. The snow comes on and off and it's definitely worse than he’d ever care to admit, but sometimes he can convince himself it's a wet cold and feel a little better.

There's windy cold, which is  _ bad.   _ Because wind isn't just wind, it's nails and fingers and knives all coming at him at once. One time he thought he was going to be blown off the highway with its sheer force. But if he could get his hood on the perfect way, it would block some of the wind and then it wouldn't be quite as brutal.

And there's dry cold, which is the worst.

And that's how it is today.

It's the kind of cold that's so painful it makes his arms and legs sting and burn, and his face raw, and blood vessels pop in his cheeks. There’s next to no wind, but cold is never so harsh and vengeful as it is when there’s no wind for it to carry its anger.

The cars on the road are trembling with the force of the freezing gusts of wavering air as he walks. It's sunny. Harry doesn't like being out in the open, and ducks behind a car for a moment to catch his breath.

He wonders sometimes why things had to turn out like this. He knows there are camps in every major city or so, heavily fortified so that not even the British Army would be able to come up with the resources to hold an attack or infiltration. Camps that are more secure and more structured than the one he’d been taken to in the early days, when the coup had killed the unfit ones, hid the women and girls somewhere, and turned the boys and young men into their own soldiers. (They'd already resorted to mass graves for the dead). If he ever encounters another camp, he doesn’t know how he’ll survive. Not that they’d let him, as he’s wanted for treason.

And Harry knows, by now, that there's so much that can go wrong when you’re living with angry teenage boys who have all had everything they loved ripped away from them. He's the living example.

After about an hour of walking at a pace far too slow for his taste, he encounters his first exit. The exit curves off behind some trees beyond his line of vision, and the highway he's been walking on extends into what appears to be nothingness. He turns. He can keep walking down this route and risk not finding shelter for the night, or he can take the exit and see where he ends up. He looks up at a looming pole at the side of the road. The sign appears to have fallen a long time ago. He looks down at where the exit slopes beckoningly. He looks ahead at the endless freeway.

He takes the exit.

He realizes, after about fifteen minutes, that this was a mistake.

The end of the curve reveals the one thing he's been dreading for the past few months since last time; a city skyline. Not just any city skyline, he supposes, because it’s rude of him to be neglectful. Especially when  _ London's _ skyline is staring expectantly at him, as if waiting for his inevitable arrival. The road descends to a foggy haze where he can distinctly define the outlines of unlit buildings and the occasional skyscraper.

Fuck. This wasn't supposed to happen.

Harry looks behind him. He can see two empty cars. Both will probably be locked. He can't afford to spend another night in one, and he knows that once he settles into a car he'll be there for days. He supposes he could try and wait out the winter but with that comes the risk of starving to death.

He forms a quick list in his head.

Pros of going into the city: Food. Shelter.

Cons of going into the city: Soldiers. Camps.  _ Rebels.  _

Harry does something he hasn't done in at least a year.

He fishes out a cigarette and his lighter from the front pocket of his backpack, and he starts towards the city.

*

It's warmer somehow.

Maybe it's the sun's violent glare, bouncing off of broken glass shards, littered cans, the remnants of shop windows. Maybe it's the vague shelter of the towering buildings that shield him from the icy wind. Maybe it's the burning smoke he inhales with each slow, careful drag of his cigarette.

He stays close to each wall, practically hugging it as he turns a corner, and then another corner. There are a few boutiques here and there, some apartment buildings, a food shop that probably used to contain food but doesn't anymore. He learned a long time ago not to scour the convenience stores; they don't hold anything of use. He can ransack the pharmacies of supermarkets and rat out canned food in the crevices of two-bedroom flats, but cafes and restaurants are dangerous, all full of rotted vegetables and bread with spores that could poison a human being within mere minutes. (He knows from experience.)

Harry winces at the noise when he crunches glass under his boots. There's not a single sound otherwise. The silence is masking and muffling and the only thing he can hear is the ringing in his ears.

Well. Maybe instead of wandering aimlessly, he should be seeking out some kind of shelter.

He pushes on a door absently as he passes by. It gives slightly, creaky from years of no use, but it's not locked, which means, consequently, most of the doors on this road will not be locked. This tells him that when it comes to where he'd like to stay for the night, his options are vast.

Harry picks the upper floor of a shop for no particular reason; the door is unlocked and welcoming and seemingly waiting for his entry. He can be comfortable here. It's cozy, quaint, and offers a lovely shield from the wind. His cigarette has burned out to a stump of gray ash by the time the sun is on the edge of setting for the night.

He never used to smoke or ever wanted to, is the thing, but after an offer several winters ago from a boy at camp who said it was filling and it’d warm him up, he lost the willpower to resist. And he doesn’t like to waste them, because if there’s a currency at all these days, it’s tobacco. Near impossible to find, and amazing during the most freezing months of the year. Not that he’s counting on running into anyone.

Anyways, does it really matter? His body is so used to stress and bacteria a mere little cigarette couldn’t do a shot of harm. The epidemic didn’t kill him, after all.

He fumbles for the knife in his belt as a precaution as he steps tentatively through the threshold. Silence--eerie silence. Nothing. He’ll be fine. He tilts his gaze up. No cameras planted by Rebels--he knows they’re sneaky when it comes to that kind of thing. But he doesn’t let go of his knife.

He closes the door softly behind him, sealing the cold air our. He breathes a small sigh and wishes he had another cigarette to spare. Or a bag of crisps. Or something. Anything, really. He eyes his surroundings; mundane decor, sealed windows, tattered furniture. A few picture frames lay smashed on the ground, probably from one of the earthquakes earlier on. He’s not really sure why the epidemic sparked a chain reaction of natural disasters. He doesn’t really care, because he’s still alive.

He’s humming something to himself when he slides off his backpack, a song he knows from forever ago but doesn’t remember the words to. Probably something to do with love. The irony gives him a bit of a tickle.

He doesn’t bother to unzip his coat when he collapses onto the sofa, squeezing the knife just once as a comfort and reassurance and letting his eyes fall shut, only for a moment. He remembers a split second later that he needs to block the door with something and draw the curtains. The couch is the only thing heavy enough to actually cover the door, and the curtains are so moth eaten they don’t really do much, so he spreads his tarp underneath the window out of sight from lurking things and curls up on top of it after pushing the piece of furniture to block the entrance.

He dozes off then, just when the dark begins creeping across the wooden floor.

*

He wakes up early the next day, a windy, icy cold stirring the inside of his empty stomach and piercing the skin on his cheeks.

His fingers tremble slightly as he sits up, robotically collects his things, peers out the window. Snow falls slowly, prettily, collects on the window’s rim. He smiles to himself for a moment.

“ _ Every snowflake is different _ ,  _ Hazza _ .  _ Isn’t that cool?  _ ”

His smile fades. He remembers why he doesn’t let himself linger places.

Harry leaves the flat after a few minutes, only taking the time to relieve his bladder and eat another cracker. His canteen is almost empty as well, so he’ll need to fill it at some point later today. He runs over a plan in his head, just to keep his mind running. He’ll move through the city, scavenge for food. Spend a couple nights here maybe, possibly hole up in the tube for a little while to protect himself from the cold. The sole of his boot peels as he walks, and he grimaces involuntarily. Shoes are far too expensive, a whole pack of cigarettes at least, and that’s from a dealer alone. If he runs into someone, he’ll have to kill them for the shoes. He really, really doesn’t like killing people.

_ There was a chill that ran through him on the look of the soldier’s face; wild, inhuman, mangy hair sticking up and teeth stained in red blood.  _

_ Harry wasn’t hurt too bad. His wrist was swollen, bruised, but he could move all his fingers a bit. He looked down at the man on the ground, British emblem, the tattoo on his hand. A cross. The young soldier was a Christian. He looked back at the knife in his hand. Blood. The soldier’s chest. Red. Blood.  _

Harry pulls his scarf further up on his face. His eyes flit around, looking for some cause of disruption; nothing.

That’s the problem. That’s the thing. He’s in London, and he can’t hear or see shit. Too good to be true.

He turns a corner. Looks around a bit. Listens hard.

Nothing.

He needs to get the fuck out of this city.

His hand wraps around the knife in his belt. He thinks as he walks, quickly; he can definitely last another two days, maybe three, on what food he has right now, as long as he has water. He can fill his canteen somewhere on the edge of town. In that time, if he moves fast, he could be out of the city.

Harry knows not to test his luck. So it’s now, conveniently, when the snow picks up.

In ten minutes, all of which he’s been furiously speed walking, the gentle flurry he’s been travelling through has become a full out blizzard. A near whiteout. The ground is already gathering a thick layer of snow, which means he’s leaving footprints, which means he has to get the hell out of sight before something or someone finds him.

He pauses for a moment, squints through the white blurring his vision. He can see a few signs here and there, and he recognizes them as directions to a bus or tube station, which is where he’ll have to camp out until the storm passes. In a couple hours, it should’ve calmed down, assuming it’s his usual January weather. It’ll pass. It’ll pass. He’ll be okay. He’ll get out. He ignores his racing heart and moves faster.

It’s the tube. Underground is probably one of the only things he likes about being in the city. Shelter from winter, calm and quiet. The stench is awful but it’s worth it because it’s safe, and safe isn’t something he feels very often.

He flicks on his flashlight as he walks down the steps, pulls out his knife and readies himself. There shouldn’t be anyone down here right now. He doesn’t wish to risk it.

It’s considerably warmer, shielded from the storm. He spends about three minutes searching (he’s counting the seconds) and when he doesn’t find anything, nothing from either direction of the tracks and nothing from every entrance he can see, he slides off his backpack, unsnaps his tarp from the inside, spreads it over a relatively clean patch of floor in the corner and takes out his moleskine journal.

The last entry is dated three days ago, when he found a couple’s dead bodies inside an abandoned car on the side of the highway and had to stop for half an hour to get his breath back. He uncaps his pen, shakes it a bit to get the ink going.

_ January 20th. Ended up in London, a silly accident. Everything’s quiet. Holing up in some station until the storm passes.  _

He needs a new pen. And a new journal. Both will probably be pretty easy to find; people don’t really care about art or literature anymore.

Now, as the weary blizzard blankets the outside world, he lets himself sleep.

*

_ Footsteps.  _

He jerks awake.

_ Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck what does he do where does he hide where’s his knife where’s his light don’t breathe don’t move don’t make a sound.  _

There are footsteps. He can hear them, his head clear; voices, somewhere far off, moving down the tracks, moving closer. He folds up his tarp, quickly, carefully, stuffs it inside his backpack, slips his backpack on and his knife back out. He double checks that his flashlight is off. He makes for the stairs, but he’s too late--he knows already. The footsteps have already turned the corner, and he ducks behind the nearest pillar because he has nothing left to do.

He’s certain that his heart is beating loud enough for the people to hear. His hands shake, sweat. He’s so stupid. Why did he let himself fall asleep?

“...doesn’t want us to have anything,” one of the voices says, chuckling. He counts the footsteps, the number of people. Two. Three. There are at least four people, he’s sure. Fuck. “Wants us all to diet, eh? Apparently I’m a bit too pudge for the guy.”

The voices laugh. Four. He only hears four. He can take them, he thinks. That is, if he can’t escape in time.

“You know he means well,” another man says. “Wants to save the snacks for the kids.”

“I know. But listen, the kids get loads of shit anyway. Have you seen their lunches? I haven’t had an orange in nine months.

More laughter.

Harry thinks he breathes too loud.

“Did you hear that?” one of them says.

“Search the place,” commands someone. “Then we’ll move on.”

He listens hard, trembling. Considering he was a soldier for three years, he should be able to handle his fear a lot better. Of course, that was when Z was around, and Z isn’t here with him anymore.

Footsteps move around the pillar. He doesn’t think before turning and sticking his knife in the young man’s throat.

His uniform. Shit. He’s a camp soldier. Must be, considering his age.

The man--well, boy--gags for a moment, choking on his own blood, and falls to his knees, and by then, Harry is too late and only has time to graze someone’s cheek before an arm is coming up behind him, putting him in a headlock as he scrambles frantically but doesn’t scream.

_ Never scream. Never cry. Find a way.  _

He stamps,  _ hard _ , on his captors foot. The man yelps and Harry somehow manages to wedge the knife into his neck at a weak angle. 

“No!” one of the boys shouts, and Harry sticks his hand out before the body collides with him, hears the sickening pop of his own bone, and only has time to see the icy butt of a rifle before it slams into his temple and knocks him out cold.

 

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in walks a man with blue eyes; his name is louis.

He’s not sure what brings him back to consciousness.

Maybe it’s the pounding in his head. The fluorescent lights reflecting against the table. The throb of his wrist, dislocated, _again_ , bent at an awkward angle and restrained by the metal cuffs.

Maybe it’s his surprising lack of clothing and supplies. Backpack gone, coat gone, jacket gone. Boots gone. His fucking boots are gone, and now he wants to kill whoever’s holding him hostage, because he's gone through hell and back for these goddamn boots.

Fuck. It all hits him very suddenly. He remembers now. Camp. He’s run into another camp. And they’re going to find him in their records and they’re going to see what he did and they’re going to torture him because that's just what they _do_ and then they'll kill him.

He looks desperately round the empty room for some way; not of escape, because that’ll be impossible, even with his skills, but of some way to maybe end his life now so that he doesn’t have to face execution at the hands of the army. That would be fucking humiliating and he's vowed he won't go out like that.

But nothing. And he’s restrained. How could he be so stupid?

Harry hears voices outside the door, pauses, listens. He can’t make out anything they’re saying, only hears two men, arguing, maybe? And then the door opens, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

It’s a young man who looks about the age of his old squad leader, mid to late twenties or so. Messy and tousled auburn hair, glasses. Stubble lining his chin. Army shirt, sleeves rolled up. Black jeans. He eyes Harry with the mirth and malice of only someone entitled and powerful.

Harry wants to kill him.

The man spends a good minute pacing back and forth, eyes flitting over him like he’s some _toy_ , sizing him up, probably dreaming up all the possible ways to hurt someone like Harry. Harry probably looks like some scared teenager, which is true, aside from the teenager part. But of course he doesn’t show it. He never shows it. Instead, he clenches his jaw and stares right back, mustering up all the hatred he can into one loathing glare. The man tilts his head and quirks an eyebrow. Reaches into his back pocket. Harry is almost certain he’s going to pull out a gun, and blinks, just once. Instead, this awful man before him withdraws a moleskine journal.

 _Harry’s_ moleskine journal.

His heart rate spikes as the man opens the front cover, moving his eyes very slowly over the words written there. Harry feels his insides twist with a horrible, violent rage. 

“ _June 2nd, 2018_ ,” the man reads out--slow, so fucking slow. He’s enjoying this, the sick bastard. “ _Eddy died today. Ni’s been in surgery all night. Z’s so angry at me I don’t think he’ll ever speak to me again. I know I fucked up. It’s my fault._ ”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut. He knows not let any of this shit get to him; he can’t. He ignores the pain in his chest, his head, his wrist. The man reads on.

“ _June 30th, 2018. I had a dream about Gem last night. I was crying when I woke up. Z told me crying was for pussies. I told him that was offensive and he laughed. We had egg and toast for breakfast and I went to the infirmary and gave some of mine to Ni. He’s pretty fucked up about Ed, especially because he can’t walk.”_

“Stop,” Harry rasps, and he realizes that’s the first word he’s spoken to anyone in a very long time.

The man flips through the journal, ignoring him. He stops about halfway through, and Harry can’t see what page he’s on but he _knows_  somehow just from the pit in his stomach and the lump in his throat.

“ _March 27th, 2019_ ,” the man continues. Harry’s hands shake. He _knows._ “ _I couldn’t do anything to stop it. Now Z is gone and they’re after me._ ”

The man pulls up the chair in the corner of the room that Harry neglected to notice. The lights flicker. Maybe it’s his eyes fluttering. He’s pretty sure he's seeing double right now. He _definitely_ has a concussion from the feel of things and he’s dizzy and angry and he wants to go back to sleep.

They’re a couple feet apart, him and the man. If Harry didn’t have these damn cuffs on he’d probably be able to reach out and grab him by the throat and slam his face into the table.

Except his wrist is broken. And he can’t see properly. So there’s that.

“Welcome to the world, sunshine,” the man says, Yorkshire accent and smirk. Harry wants him dead. “You were out for a little while. Feeling okay?” He raises his eyebrows, waiting for an answer.

“Go to hell,” Harry spits.

“I can take a look at that wrist of yours,” the man tells him. Harry wonders if he has a name or if he'll forever be known as _the hideous man who stole my journal who I'm going to kill as soon as I get the chance_. “Snap it right back into place for you.”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Harry hisses, trying to pull away as far back as he can. He knows there’s no use in begging to be let free. Maybe, just maybe, his time is up.

The man raises an eyebrow, cocks his head. “You really are a stubborn little shit, aren’t you?”

Harry gathers a nice wad of saliva in his mouth and spits it in the man’s face. The man takes a moment, sighs, and wipes his face with the bottom of his shirt. Proceeds as if it’s absolutely no trouble, as if he couldn’t just kill Harry right now if he wanted to.

The man puts a stack of papers on the table. Harry hadn’t noticed that either. His head’s fucked up pretty bad, and it's more obvious now, pounding and throbbing. He can hear the blood pulsing in his ears and feel the pulse bumping in his fingertips.

“Harry Styles, 22,” he reads. “Manchester. Big sister, nice parents. Killed during the coup.” There’s something off about this man, and it only takes a moment for him to realize it’s because he’s _English_ , it’s because he’s young, and if Harry is correct he’s currently at a camp, which means it should be run by the foreign army, and...god, his head hurts. He's so fucking tired. “Transported to your first military camp at 16, escaped at 19. Second to top ranking. Smartest marks in your squadron.”

Harry glares at him.

“I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“You do that,” the man replies nonchalantly, and Harry pictures a silly wave of the hand to accompany his tone. “You might need to fix up that wrist first.”

Without preamble, he reaches forward, grips Harry’s hand, and straightens the bent joint with a pop. Harry tries to bite back the cry he lets out but fails, a twist of searing pain shooting up his forearm, up into his shoulder, and settling in his head.

“There we go, that wasn’t so bad,” he says. “Here’s the deal, kid. I’m going to ask you some questions. If you don’t answer, I’m gonna read another page in your little book. If you get a smart mouth with me, I’m gonna hit you. We clear?”

Harry seals his mouth tightly, blinking back the water welling up in his eyes that definitely are not tears, no sir. 

“I asked you a question.”

“Fine,” Harry growls, teeth gritted, jaw clenched.

“You didn’t escape your camp, did you?”

The hair on the back of his neck prickles and goosebumps raise on his arms.

“You don’t know shit about me,” he seethes, pulling at the cuffs in some kind of rage. There are deep red lines around his wrists; he’ll draw blood soon. “And if you know what’s good for you you’ll let me go. I won’t have to hurt anyone.” He knows this is a lie. Of course he has to hurt them. He’s going to kill this man and he’s going to kill his lackeys, and he's gonna kill as many others as he can before escaping back into the forest.

“Say whatever you want,” the man says, amused. “We’re not letting you go. You’re too valuable. I asked you a question.”

“Why do you care about my fucking camp?”

Suddenly there’s a fist hurtling at his head and he barely has time to brace himself before the hand pounds into the side of his cheek. He takes a moment, blinks away the spots in his vision, blinks away the tears (which he’s accepted as such), and forces away the white hot pain.

“I told you my conditions,” the man scolds. “I’d prefer if you’d follow them because I’d like you conscious. You didn’t escape your camp, did you?”

Harry seals his lips tightly, preparing himself for another hit; it doesn’t come, and that’s possibly one of the most unnerving things about this interrogation of sorts, like it would almost be better to be punched than have to face another question. He can’t anticipate anything, not with this man's spontaneity. Thankfully, after the camp, he’d been careful about what he’d written in his journal, ready for some attack or mugging or anything, really, but now it doesn’t matter because this man knows things no one is supposed to know.

This man _knows_ him.

And, as Harry thinks this and tries to make it look like his body isn’t seizing up in fear, stomach clenched from not swallowing a thing in days, probably, throat parched from not consuming an actual meal in _years_ all pent up, the man turns to another bookmarked page in his journal and keeps reading.

“ _August 1st, 2017._ ” Harry remembers this day and he bites his cheek hard enough to taste blood. “ _Alex found out I liked boys. I don’t know how, because Z’s the only person I’ve ever told, but he reported me. A couple guards beat me up pretty bad, but said I was too valuable to kill. I think I broke a finger._ ”

A heavy silence blankets the room as Harry audibly swallows down the bile in his throat.

“Do you know what the government does to gay people?” the man asks quietly, not putting down the book and peering up at Harry.

Harry feels a bit of warm blood drip from his nose.

“They execute them,” the man tells him coldly. “Luckily, for you, that is, I can’t kill you. Not yet. You’re the only person we could get a hold of who’s seen inside a camp.”

And...what?

“Trust me, I wish I could,” the man continues, closing the journal and tucking it into his back pocket. Harry stares at him. “I hate you lot. Government scum if you ask me. But unfortunately Harry Styles, you are the exact person we need right now.”

Harry sniffs a bit, swooshing the blood around his mouth repeatedly, and stares at the man, who is now giving him a once over with a slightly repulsed expression on his face.

“When was the last time you ate, kid?”

“I’m not a kid.” Those are the first words that come out of his mouth once he’s swallowed the blood down, and he hates himself for it; he hates how defensive he is, he hates the expectant and waiting grumble his stomach makes, and he hates the way his mind jumps to meat and vegetables and _bread_.

“Twenty two is a kid in my book,” the man says. “Considering you’re a good few years younger than my men.”

“Who are your men?” Harry coughs wetly.

“You aren’t actually that bright, are you? My men are none of your concern. Staying alive should be pretty high up on your priority list.”

He stands up, leaves Harry sitting there, still cuffed to the damn table, stomach still empty and nose still bleeding, vision wavering and ears ringing, left to absorb the stabbing insult laced into every sentence. He _definitely_ has a concussion.

“I’ll be right back,” the man says after a moment, and leaves.

 

*

 

When the man returns, it’s with a bottle of water and a steaming plate of food.

Harry tries not to let it get to him. He really, really tries. But the thing is, he’s so malnourished he’s past the point of rationality and he can _feel_ the hunger curling in his gut, the emptiness in his stomach.

“What is that?” he asks hoarsely.

“Dinner,” the man replies simply, placing the plate and a plastic fork in front of him as if it means _nothing_ , as if this isn’t the first proper meal he’s had placed in front of him since before he was sixteen. “I’m going to take off these cuffs. Before you do anything, just remember that there are three guards outside all armed with assault rifles, this base is heavily fortified so you wouldn’t be able to escape even if you were Houdini, my name is Louis, and I’m not going to kill you.” He takes a key out of his pocket, and Harry pauses for a moment, gets a good look at the food in front of him. A sliver of meat. A tiny scoop of mashed potatoes. A small serving of peas. A piece of cheese.

It won’t hurt, will it? To just...eat something.

And then something in the light sends a pain shooting through his skull, and the pain brings him back to his senses. How can he believe that this man–-Louis, he’s said his name is–-isn’t trying to kill him? Harry hasn’t had great experiences so far with camp leaders. It doesn’t matter if this man runs a camp or not, really. What matters is Harry has been mugged and attacked and restrained in some...underground facility.

He can’t tear his eyes away from the plate, though. Doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move as Louis moves closer to him steadily, doesn’t breathe as a tiny key clicks and the cuffs loosen slowly.

His wrist aches. He wills himself to look away.

“Eat,” Louis tells him sternly, removing the cuffs completely. “This is the only thing you’re going to get tonight.”

 _It’s poison_ , the voice in the back of his head whispers. _Don’t do it. It’s poison._

“No,” Harry whispers, an echo of that voice.

“Would you prefer I left?” Louis raises an eyebrow tantalizingly. “It’s not poison or anything. Promise.” He smirks, holding up his pinky.

“Let me go,” Harry replies, feeling too small for this metal chair. “Please. No one has to die. Please.” For a brief moment, the lights dim, and he’s not sure if it’s his faulty vision or the room itself.

_“The worst last words I’ve heard are people begging,” Z said frankly. “Like, you know you’re gonna fucking die. Why make yourself look stupid?”_

Harry shudders.

“Not gonna work on me.” Louis waggles his finger almost disapprovingly, and Harry _hates_ him. “You eat or you don’t. Your choice.”

The lights flicker again. He’s dehydrated and hungry and tired and in pain and it would really be easier to lie down and die right now, but he doesn’t. He fights it.

And then, he succumbs, and reaches with trembling fingers for the bottle of water.

“There’s a good lad,” he hears Louis say, but barely notices it above the ringing in his ears. He feels the freezing trail the water leaves down the back of his throat, feels it travel through his chest and fall heavily into his stomach. Some of it drips down his chin, onto his shirt. He empties about three quarters of the bottle and then pulls it away for a split second to take in a rattling breath before finishing it off.

“Good?” Louis inquires, and Harry ignores him, reaching for the fork, sticking the piece of meat in his mouth and chewing twice before swallowing. It’s not a lot of food in the scheme of things; the servings are tiny, and there’s a reflexive nagging in the back of his mind from his inner survivor that’s telling him to save the food for when he needs it, but he’s just so hungry.

Harry cleans the plate.

He doesn’t really care that he looks like some kind of animal, that he’s dropped scraps on the table while Louis watches intently, stare burning into Harry's brain and branding themselves there. Harry's never felt so obliviously and pathetically full and content. And does it matter that by the time half the food is gone he feels about ready to vomit? No. No it doesn’t. His stomach’s probably shrunk to the size of a plum from not eating properly in years, but he’s not letting that stop him.

Harry chews his last bite, gulps it down. Runs his tongue over his teeth. The food is bland. It’s also the most wonderful thing he’s ever tasted.

“Right then,” Louis says, folding his arms, still staring as Harry wipes his mouth with his good hand. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, kid.” Harry glares. The man can’t be more than thirty. “You’re going to shower. Change. You’re going to be medically cleared. I’m going to have someone show you to your temporary holding cell. You’re going to be bound the whole time, and you’re _not_ going to make a single fucking move or I’m going to put a bullet in your skull. We clear?”

Harry’s hand clenches, jaw sets. A bit of hair falls into his eye; it could do with a cut. It’s down to his shoulders now, matted and dirty and dark. He feels dopey and full and thinks that maybe, this was the intention all along. To get him feeling content enough to just...obey.

“Yes,” Harry says. “We’re clear.”

 

*

 

_The first time Harry was quarantined he was eighteen years old._

_Z had told him not to be scared. Not to be scared when the suited figures restrained him, not to be scared when they tossed him into a dark and lonely tent as if he weighed nothing. Not to scream, not to cry. That there was always a way._

_The thing was, he should’ve died. He should’ve gotten sicker and sicker until he was eaten from the inside, just like the ones they’d heard about. He was already showing signs. They were going to kill him. He knew that. He just didn’t know how soon._

_“I’ll try and see you,” Z had murmured in a low voice into his ear before the guards had lifted him up and flung him into the dirt. He can still taste the mud, stuck under his tongue and between his teeth._

_Z never came to see him._

_For thirty-seven days, he was alone._

_And then, when he didn’t die, they let him out._

 

*

 

Louis takes him to a room with three shower stalls and three toilets.

Harry swallows the bile rising in his throat. For a second, he’s at camp, crouched in a hard corner and clutching his bleeding face and he shakes off an invisible hand on his shoulder. Louis gives him a curious and judgemental look with piercing diamond colored eyes. 

“Take care of yourself,” he says, eyes flicking up and down his body. Harry grits his teeth. ”I’ll be outside. Remember if you fucking try anything you’ll be dead before you can blink. You’re valuable, but not _that_ valuable.”

“Fuck you,” Harry near snarls. “You can’t make me do shit.”

“No,” Louis replies, amused expression playing on his face. He crosses his arms. “But I can try. And I think you know that men like me know a lot of ways to _make_ someone do something.”

His insides clench. He runs a tongue over a flap of chewed skin on the inside of his cheek, the stale taste of blood tangy and sharp. Fuck. He shouldn’t be here. This is just like camp, no matter if it’s government run or not. It’s still a camp. It’s still a fucking camp. How could he be so stupid?

His head pounds. Suddenly, the lights shift for a moment, and, as if it’s a wave passing over him, his vision blurs, his knees buckle, and he’s teetering towards the floor before he can stop himself, allowed one last second of painful consciousness in which he catches Louis saying his name before the world drifts away.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry doesn't know where he is.

_“Quiet!”_

_A hand was pressed over his mouth. He licked it. The hand withdrew in disgust and he felt his mouth turn up in a smile; a smile that felt familiar to dream-him, a smile that feels foreign to the current him. The real him._

_“Shh, he’s coming…”_

_They heard the faint sounds of footsteps, and snickered from where their knees were pressed together, their arms wrapped around their bodies. Harry grinned big and bright and the curtain was pulled back suddenly._

_“Ha! Got you!”_

_Z swore loudly. “I told you to stop laughing, H!”_

_Harry burst into a fit of giggles, clutching his tummy and rolling out of the cupboard._

_“You weren’t quiet enough, stupid,” Niall teased fondly, rustling his hair. Harry decided not to chastise him for the childish gesture, just that one time._

_“Come on,” Z said, getting to his feet and brushing off his clothes. Z never smiled but he was now, looking down at Harry, laughing. “Let’s go find the others.”_

 

_*_

 

Someone’s humming.

It’s a tune he thinks he recognizes, and for a second he thinks it’s Z. But no, the voice is too deep and too low and Z isn’t here.

He’s not at home, he’s not at camp. He’s not lying on the hard ground in the woods; there’s not a fine coating of snow settled into the crevices of his clothes. He’s...underground. He can tell by the pressure in his ears. But the lights. They’re far too bright. The air is far too clear. He thinks, briefly, that he’s still dreaming. He feels a bandage wound tightly around his head, a calm pulse in his ears. He’s not dreaming.

He stares at the ceiling as the voice continues its humming; it’s _Amazing Grace._ He remembers singing it for his school talent show when he was little and the world was wonderful.

“Ah,” the voice says, and it approaches closer. Harry’s eyes burn. “You’re awake. How’re you feeling?” There’s a pause as it waits for his answer, and his answer doesn’t come. He probes the inside of his cheek with his tongue.

“Harry,” the voice says, and he pretends not to flinch. “Do you know where you are?”

He wants to laugh. Stupid. No, he _doesn’t_ know where the fuck he is. He would love to find out. He’d like some tea first, please. And maybe his things back. And a car. And a tent. And he’d really like his family back as well. There are a million things he'd like to ask for but only picks the achievable one.

_Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound._

“Water,” he whispers, a hollow rasp from the back of his throat.

“Right. Okay.” He can’t move his head, but he feels a plastic cup pressed to his lip; feels it tipping back, washing down the back of his throat. The urge to cough pushes up against his chest. He fights it, swallows hard.

“Now,” the voice continues. He lets his eyes slip shut, because somehow he feels safe and warm in this bed. Like the last ten years of his life has been a dream and he's finally waking up to a caring hand and a quiet, soft room. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

 _Camp,_ he thinks. _Camp._ And so he remembers that his life is far from a dream, and you only feel ghostly pain in dreams, and the pain in his head is very, very real and tangible. 

“My head,” he whispers.

“That’s right.” The person’s face enters his line of vision; blue eyes, floppy hair. Mouth set in a concerned line. “You fell, Harry. You hit your head pretty hard. You’re safe now.”

 _Safe._ No, he’s never safe. He needs to get out of here.

He tries to sit up, ignoring the ache in his skull, but is unsuccessful, and his stomach lurches when he realizes he’s restrained again. He’s tied down, and there’s nowhere to go. He tries to turn his head. It pulses with pain. He fights it. His vision goes a little hazy.

Harry remembers a pain like this. He must’ve been about six, fallen off his bike. Hit his head on the hard pavement. They called it a mild concussion, and he wasn’t allowed to ride his bike for a couple weeks, but he was fine.

_That saved a wretch like me._

“Whoa, take it easy,” the voice says. Harry sees a white coat in the corner of his eye. “You have a concussion. You need to rest.”

“Where am I?” he manages. His wrist tingles. He needs to get out of here.

“Hey,” a new voice says, softer and kinder. More homely. “Harry.” He thinks he recognizes it. Z? Niall? “Breathe. Give him a moment, Jack.”

“Where am I?” Harry repeats, more demanding this time. He feels the sting of a needle in his inner elbow, and wishes he could tug it out.

“We’ll explain everything in time.” He turns his head, sees the man the voice belongs to. _Louis,_ his brain tells him. But Louis isn’t his friend. Louis dislocated his wrist and Louis read from his private journal. Louis is, as of yet, his biggest enemy.

“Fuck you,” he spits, mad temper beating his rational thought to his lips. “Untie me.”

“Not so fast, kid. Do you want some answers or not?”

He pauses thoughtfully. He would like some answers. He’d like to be untied. He’d like a lot of things, but he doesn’t consider any of them remotely possible.

“There we go. Let’s make a deal, yeah?” Louis leans over and looks at him. “I tell you something, you answer a question.” The tactic seems a lot less petrifying than his original interrogation; he doesn’t need to give up anything, really, not if he doesn’t want to, and he contemplates silently for a moment, settling back into his pillow, his cot, and nodding once.

“You’re in the London underground. That guy right behind me is Jack. He’s a doctor. You’re safe. We’re not going to kill you.”

Harry has heard these words said a million times by a million people, and he hates them. _We’re not going to kill you_ , they say as they shut him in a dark truck. _We’re not going to kill you_ , they say as they drug him and bind him and leave him for dead.

“Why were you in the tube station, Harry?”

Harry recoils under blue eyes. He shouldn’t be this afraid. But he’s still tethered to the stupid cot, and no one makes any move to loosen the restraints, and there are two men in the room with him; two men, older and stronger and nourished and hydrated, and Harry, at the moment, is quite the opposite. He knows what will happen if he pisses someone off and that’s probably what terrifies him the most.

“Storm,” he says quietly, and hopes it passes as an answer.

“That’s it?” Louis’ brows furrow, and for a moment Harry thinks he looks like he could be a friend, another soldier, and then he remembers that Louis knows things no one else is supposed to know, and he feels a coldness spread across his chest.

“Why else would I be down there?” Harry tries to snap, but it comes out in a tired slur, one line. He feels his brain trying to nudge him back into sleep but he resists.

“Can’t be too careful,” Louis replies, as if Harry doesn’t already know.

The other man, Jack, is still standing unmoving and unwavering in the corner of the room, silent. Harry gives him a once over. Fairly tall, lean. Well-proportioned. Holds himself with confidence. He’s evidently been well fed and isn’t hungry, not in the way he keeps his back straight and shoulders relaxed. Harry thinks, that with a bit of effort, he could take him. Louis, however, is another story; he’s not particularly tall and he seems very slight, but Harry doesn’t miss the pistol tucked into the back of his waistband. His escape plan isn’t going to work.

“You’re here because we need your help,” Louis explains sternly, either not noticing the way Harry’s eyes flit to a knife in his belt or choosing to ignore it. “That doesn’t mean we trust you. Or that we can let you roam free. We know what you’re capable of.”

Harry knows. He knows they know what he’s capable of.

“Speaking of which,” he continues, “You killed two of our men. Don’t think that won’t have consequences.”

 _Consequences_ , he thinks, and almost scoffs.

“Why don’t you just kill me now?” he asks rawly. “What good am I to another camp?”

Another underground, quiet, hidden-from-lurking-things camp. With no soldiers as of yet, or tents, or search dogs, or angry barked orders and beatings for the hell of it.

Right.

“This isn't a camp,” Jack the doctor says suddenly, and Louis turns and gives him a look that doesn't go unnoticed by Harry. “What? He needs to know.”

“We don’t know that he’s not working for anyone yet,” Louis insists. “If he is, you know what’ll happen.”

“Why don’t we just kill him now then? If we can’t take that risk?”

“You know why, Jack. Is he cleared to walk yet?”

“I’ll get him a wheelchair,” the doctor mutters, rubbing the stubble on his chin. Harry’s head pounds; the pointless bickering back and forth makes it hard to resist an eye roll. He realizes this feels too familiar, the way the men converse. Like him and Z. Like Ed and Niall. An ache forms in his throat and he wants to get out of this place.

He’s sure the social part of his brain has been turned off, at least since the camp. The desire to be with other people, the natural charm he had before all this. The constant smile, and the instinct for jokes. Yes, that part of him pretty much died right along with his parents, and was finished off in the fire. Long gone. And so it doesn’t matter that he hasn’t spoken to another person in months, and maybe he could just... _submit_ , and it would be easier. It doesn’t matter because he knows what happens when he gets close to people and he’s not letting it happen again.

He also knows he doesn’t have a choice in getting into the wheelchair; the tight, thick bandage on his head makes walking ten times more difficult than it already was because his balance is thrown off and he's lost his peripheral vision, and if he refuses, well, he’s not sure what his punishment will be. He’s stiff from being in bed for so long but he pushes Jack away when he goes to help. He doesn’t need to be treated like some child. He reckons he’s seen more of the world than the two men have combined.

“Where are you taking me?” Harry gets out as Jack begins pushing the wheelchair forward. The lights bounce off the walls and he has to close his eyes for a moment to stop himself from puking all over the nice, pretty, shiny tiled floor.

“To meet the person in charge around here,” Louis snaps. “Stop asking questions.”

“I thought you were in charge,” Harry says. He still hasn’t quite gotten over the strangeness of hearing his own voice.

“Shut up,” he’s told, and so he does.

 

*

 

The man in charge is called Ben, and Harry _really_ doesn’t like him. In fact, he quite despises him.

The first thing Ben the leader demands is for Harry to tell him exactly who his squadmates were at camp. Which, at first, he refuses to do. But then he catches sight of Louis out of the corner of his eye, the submissive attitude, eyes flitting around the room nervously. So he lies, and this is his first mistake.

“I don’t remember,” he growls, and gets a slap in the face that leaves his cheek burning and stars in his vision.

“His head is healing,” Jack blurts out anxiously. “He has a concussion.”

“He’ll live,” Ben says. Harry’s skin crawls.

The second thing Ben asks of him is to recite the Military Code of Solidarity. It’s the code the British soldiers shared amongst themselves to show opposition to the coup; Harry had learned it, of course, but he and his friends had never _used_ it. He knows almost instantly that none of these men have ever been inside a camp, if they think reciting the code is something he would do on the regular. Their tents were always wiretapped and somebody was always listening. The only thing they had were their thoughts.

“I’m not a soldier,” Harry says firmly. “I don’t fight for anyone so if you want me to be a part of your fucking Rebellion you might as well just shove it up your ass.”

Another slap, on his other cheek.

“Ben,” Jack warns.

“You have two choices,” Ben says, ignoring him. “We can lock you up again. No food. No water. No toilet. Or. You can actually listen to me and spare yourself some unnecessary pain.”

Harry doesn’t answer. The decision seems to already have been made for him.

So right when Ben leans a little closer, as if he’s gotten comfortable, Harry punches him in the face.

He almost manages another hit before the two men are grabbing his arms from behind, but they must be stronger than they look; they pull his arms straight back and he’s sure if they pulled any further his shoulders would pop out. So. Maybe not his wisest decision. But he can’t stop his smirk and flush of pleasure when he sees Ben straighten up and wipe the blood from his nose.

“Feisty, this one,” he chuckles, teeth lined with red. “I want him on every tolerance test we have. Tear gas, adrenaline. Stress resistance. Everything. Then stick him in a cell. See how long he holds up before he goes insane.”

Harry would probably laugh if he didn’t feel so horribly ill.

He’s been through countless resistance tests, is the thing. Enough exposure to poison and gas he probably wouldn’t even notice if someone shoved a rag soaked in chloroform up to his nose. He figures this makes him less than human, but he’s used it to his advantage.

_“The immunization process,” Z grunted, rubbing his red eyes. Harry blinked through the fire in his own. They were hidden behind their tent, now, out of sight from everyone else. “They give it to us little by little. Fucking sadistic pieces of shit.”_

_“But it’s good, right?” Harry whispered. He felt wet on his cheeks, but it wasn’t an emotional reaction. Just the recovery from the tear gas. “By the end of it we’ll be immune.”_

_“Do you realize what that means?” Z replied, stunned. “They want us to be their perfect little soldiers. I’m done with it, man. I’m not gonna let them do it to me.”_

“You think you know what you’re getting into,” Harry spits as they wheel him out the room, hands now bound by cuffs and twisted harshly behind his back. “You think you know everything. You have no idea, no _fucking_ idea who I am.”

He can’t see Ben’s face; he’s wheeled around the corner before he can catch it.

 

*

 

_The first time they were attacked, it was during the first evacuation. He remembers they’d been in Manchester at the time, some apartment complex downtown. He must’ve been about fourteen, which meant his sister had still been with him but the baby hadn’t been born yet. The alarms had all gone off, sirens loud and screeching. Middle of the night on a Tuesday. So they’d leapt out of bed, but Gemma had stopped him._

_“They’ll find us!” Harry had exclaimed, young and terrified._

_“They want to take us away like they took mum and dad away,” she’d told him. “They want to take us to a camp.”_

_“What do we do?”_

_“Hide,” she said, and so they spent around an hour curled up to each other in the bathtub with the curtain drawn until a heavy pounding sounded on the door._

_They’d been caught. And they’d fought like hell, as they were dragged through the hallway, dragged down the stairs, tossed into the warm spring night outside, right with the other screaming teenagers, all terrified for their lives and all their faces purple and red with bruises and cuts._

_A single canister had been thrown into the crowd, and Harry had watched it in slow motion; knew exactly what it was before it hit him, the awful smell and the blinding fog._

_He hadn’t let go of his sister’s hand the whole time._

_Me,_ Harry thinks. His eyes burn with the residue of painful memories. _They wanted to take me to a camp._

Of course, it’d been another three years until they’d actually managed to wrangle him into one. By then, he’d already gotten good at resisting.

So now, in an air locked room with a thrumming in his ears, crouched on the hard floor, knees drawn to his chest, he looks on the bright side and supposes things could be a lot worse.

He knows the mirror on his other side is a two way; he doesn’t even have to test it. He knows that in an establishment like this, a mirror means he’s being watched. And so after they removed him unceremoniously from his wheelchair and chucked him into the room, the first thing he could think to do was flip off his own reflection, safe in the knowledge that whoever was on the other side would get a little taste of his own hatred.

His chest aches, and he rubs it with one hand, using his other to cover his eyes. He blinks into the dark of his own palm, calloused and worn.

He’s in the room for ten minutes. His ears burn and his eyes sting and he swallows hard when he hears the door open heavily, squealing with resistance.  _Same,_ Harry thinks.

“He should be passed out by now,” Jack says matter of factly. Harry has a feeling Louis is rolling his eyes, because he can just sense that kind of thing.

“Yeah, well,” he hears, and then he’s being yanked up by the shoulders and he tries to conceal the hiss he lets out but fails, and he meets the doctor’s eyes, all soft and concerned. For a moment, he thinks it’s someone else. His mind is playing cruel tricks on him.

“Where does it hurt, Harry?”

He blinks a few times.

_“Where does it hurt, H?”_

_He took a gasping breath of air, searching frantically for oxygen as his throat closed up and the dampness in the front of his shirt spread._

“I don’t know,” he murmurs blankly.

“Jesus Christ, let him _sit_ , Jack.”

As he’s lowered into the wheelchair, Harry feels a sudden desperation to be rid of this place, to get away from these people. This isn’t good for him. It’s not where he should be. If he’d just avoided the tube, he would be out of London by now.

 _Two more tests,_ he thinks. _Then I’ll be able to think straight._

The adrenaline is fairly straightforward; a shot in his upper arm, a brief head rush. The pain simulators, by the quo and nothing out of the ordinary--not for him, at least. The stress resistance, the electric shocks, obnoxious and tiring. By the end of it he’s exhausted and boneless and too compliant, and he can’t really focus on anything other than the weak pounding of his heart and the throbbing of his head. If his heartbeat were to quiet any more, he'd be dead. It's a comforting thought.

“Do you think we pushed him too far?” The voice is distant, as if Harry’s not totally there. He’s fairly certain the two men think he’s unconscious. He’s almost there, but not quite, in that state between aware and asleep. Fuzzy enough to maybe be dreaming.

“Not our call,” one of them says. He thinks it’s Louis.

He doesn’t like Louis. Not one bit. Not because he’s second in charge. Not because Harry's been raised to oppose authority figures. Not because of his senseless bullying. Mostly because of his lack of questioning. His blind obedience for Ben the leader.

Harry knows that people like Louis are the most dangerous. People like Jack are the ones who die first.

He’s placed on a cot, gentler than he’d anticipated. Releases a painful sigh, squeezes his eyes tightly shut. There’s a pressure on his chest that would’ve made him panic a few years ago but he’s now become familiar with. The nurse at camp called it asthma, his sister had called it anxiety. He calls it life.

“Fuck, he’s hurt bad, man.”

He thinks he feels the side of his shirt being lifted up. It’s such a thin layer between his skin and the rest of the world, and he shivers in discomfort.

“ _Shit._ ”

“This wasn’t us, was it?” Jack says.

“No.” Louis’ voice wavers. “No, I wouldn’t do this.”

“It was a mob,” Harry rasps, the last of his energy drained.

“Mob?” Jack repeats.

“We did a search last week, no sick in the area.”

“Not _sick_ ,” Harry coughs irritably. “Survivors. Don’t tell me you’re those anti-anarchist theorists we’ve all heard about.”

They fall silent, then, and Harry’s not sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

Then they leave and he’s alone.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a reunion and an explanation.

Harry's dreams are full of nightmarish creatures; dogs with mangled faces and humans with missing limbs and his family, too, smiling and smiling and smiling until their faces are stuck.

He’s sure it’s a result of the chemicals shoved into his body, because he likes to think he maintains good control over his emotions. Nobody comes in to see him. It gives him plenty of time to begin meticulously planning his impending escape.

Disarming Jack and Louis won’t be difficult. He’s done far worse before with more threatening injuries disabling him; now, he’s got a concussion and a bruised rib, respectively, but he’s not restrained, which means he’ll be able to get the jump on whoever comes in next. As long as he has the strength to, of course, which he will, because he always does. 

He's noticed that there aren’t any cameras in the room, which gives him further confirmation that he’s not at just any government camp. He can tell the people here aren’t used to taking hostages, from the way they have no consistency in when they bind his hands and they've given him a meal of proper food to keep his insides satisfied enough to keep his heart beating. So he can do this. He’s sure of it.

So Harry waits.

He waits for a day, and then, through a gap underneath the door, in slides a tray; a gray plastic tray with a plate full of vegetables and meat, and a water bottle on its side.

His stomach clenches on instinct. He’s hungry.

He eats. Harry eats until he’s full.

And then he sleeps.

And it happens for five more days.

 

*

 

On the sixth day, he’s not sure he can take such solitude anymore.

He’s memorized the time the food is supposed to come in by now, so he lays on his stomach with his arms folded underneath his head, watching under the gap until he sees a pair of black work boots draw close. They look to be about a size 8 in men’s, scuffed on the sides but otherwise shiny and well-maintained.

Valuable. They could sell for a lot. Enough food to last him a good few months outside.

The hand that pushes the tray towards him carelessly is small, bitten down fingernails and calloused palms. Could probably be a teenager.

And so Harry waits until day seven, the one week mark, and he can’t do it. Harry Styles cannot bring himself to save himself.

He’s sure, on day eight, he’ll pull through. He’s sure he’ll be able to do it, because he has no other choice.

But instead of a tray under the door, the handle twists, and in walks a person, dressed in green and face covered by helmet, pistol drawn and nudging him down towards the floor.

It’s the green. It’s the army green jacket that triggers his response; the all too familiar color of what his life used to be. Of his friends, his family. The army.

Harry kicks his legs out, catching the man off guard. He doesn’t quite know how he does it--it all goes by in a bit of a hazy, dreamy blur--but within seconds his attacker is on the floor underneath him, out cold. He finds himself waiting patiently for something to happen, for cuffs to be locked around his hands, for someone to walk in on him crouched beside the still body. For everything to turn black.

And nothing happens. Which admittedly, catches him a little off guard, but he seizes the opportunity and chooses to make a run for it.

About two minutes in, he realizes his mistake.

The place is a labyrinth, for starters. Turn after turn after turn through halls made of gray, emotionless, barren cement, no apparent end to any of it. Doors lined up symmetrically, one after the other. Each could hold god knows how many people. He quiets his heavy breathing, presses himself against the wall for a few seconds to get used to the feel of running with his brain rocking loosely in his skull. He blinks away the blur and keeps going.

That’s when he hears the alarm, and it’s almost a comfort, in some strange way, to know they’re after him. It’s more natural. He knows what to expect.

 _Find a way,_ he thinks.

He’s almost sure he hears footsteps, thundering in the distance somewhere behind him like a stampede. The alarm beeps continuously, monotonous and droning, and he keeps running. It’s worth a try, isn’t it? And he’s working on memorizing the route he’s taken anyway, so if he gets captured again this whole thing wasn’t completely useless.

_“Don’t let them catch you, H.”_

He doesn’t, at least, not for the next few minutes of aimless running. He's certain he only takes a second to catch his breath, but in that second his captors catch up to him, and he surges forward in the opposite direction, the squeak of rubber soles against the tiled floor igniting a new terror in his chest.

What if this really is a camp? What if he’s being lied to, so they can gain his trust? What if they want him as a soldier again?

No way is he going to fall for it. Not if it’s the last thing he does.

“Stop!” he hears from behind him, and he recognizes the voice. Louis or Jack or one of them.

He keeps going.

“You won’t be able to escape, Harry!”

He can try. They don’t _know_ him. Harry's the only one who really knows himself.

Then he hears something from up ahead. Another squeak, as if someone’s taking a sharp turn, coming towards him.

They have him cornered. That’s why it took them so long to catch him.

Harry comes to a slow halt and peers back over his shoulder. There are about five men from what he can see, Louis leading them. He’s the only one in the green shirt; the others are all in ordinary clothing. Jeans, shirts. There’s something about seeing them all dressed so normally that makes his stomach lurch into his throat, because it’s not _right._

 _It’s all part of the show_ , he tells himself firmly. _They’re faking it. They’re faking everything._

“Put down the gun, Harry.”

He looks down at the pistol in his hand. He could kill someone now, and so, so easily. He knows it wouldn’t help him, not at all, and there are several other weapons pointed at his face right now so he's rather outnumbered, but, smugly, he doesn’t think they’re allowed to kill him. Not from what the leader, Ben, was saying.

And yet the pistol slips from his grip and clatters to the floor.

He presses his back to the wall as Louis takes a step forward, waits for the punch to his face, the fist to his stomach, the boots colliding with his back and ribs, but they don’t come. Just still, petrifying silence. His heart pounds. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a mess of curly hair from the other group that had been chasing him.

A young woman, mid-twenties probably, dark skin and gun in hand.

That’s when he understands.

“This isn’t a camp,” he whispers, the realization hitting him like a ton of jagged bricks, shock certainly showing on his face as Louis takes another step.

“Took you long enough,” Louis says calmly. “I need you to trust me, okay?” There’s a short pause while Harry wonders what the fuck he’s talking about, and then…

“Horan, would you mind?”

Then Harry’s mind goes blank. Because he’s dreaming. No way in hell is this real. He feels his knees buckle, a wave of nausea wash over him. No.

He hears the voice before he sees the owner.

“Hey, H.”

No. No no no no no. He needs to get out; he can feel his chest closing up, suffocating him from the inside, threatening to kill him with it's harsh claws and no mercy. This isn’t real. It’s not real. None of it.

“You’re okay,” he hears, and he vaguely recognizes the fact that he’s still standing, his legs are just frozen, hands clutching his ears and eyes sealed tightly shut. He’s dreaming.

 _Wake up!_ he wants to scream.

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder, too gentle to be unfamiliar, and he flinches away instinctively.

“It’s me, H, open your eyes.”

“You’re not real.”

“I’m real, swear on me life. Open your eyes.”

“No, don’t, please…”

“H, Jesus, look at me please.”

His eyes aren’t teary but his hands are wet when he pulls them away. Harry blinks through tangled eyelashes.

He doesn’t let himself take the man in all at once; his heart feels far too weak for that. He familiarizes himself with the clothes first; plain black t-shirt, dark jeans. That goddamn gold necklace, the fucking locket that he always got made fun of for, musical icon on one side and parents on the other. The mouth naturally turned up, ready to smile at any given moment. Slight stubble, a testament to how much the two have grown. The eyes, bright blue and sparkling. The hair, blonde a little faded at this point. He remembers when they’d bleached it together, him and Z and Ed. They’d burnt their hands and gotten an awful punishment but it’d been worth it for that hour of fun.

He takes in the silver cane keeping the man in balance.

Niall Horan grins his big old toothy, sunshiny grin. “Good god, bro, I’ve missed you.”

They have each other wrapped in a tight hug without even agreeing to do it. It’s not very comfortable and they’re both squeezing too hard for it not to hurt but Harry buries his face in Niall's neck, takes a moment to breathe him in, and he can feel that Niall is doing the same thing. They don’t let go for a long and not nearly long enough time.

“You good?” he hears Niall murmur in his ear. “They haven’t fucked with ya too much, have they? I’ll kill ‘em.”

“I’m okay,” Harry whispers, instead of telling him ‘ _they fucked with me a lot and I’m exhausted and in pain but I’m okay now that you’re here_ ’.

For a moment he thinks maybe that means the others are here too. Maybe Z’s here. Maybe Eddy’s here. This is miracle enough. What’s to say his whole _family_ isn’t here?

Then reality rushes back to him with one big  _woosh_ and forces him out of that stupid, silly headspace.

“I missed you,” Niall says. 

“I thought you were dead,” Harry answers, clutching the back of his shirt with weak, trembling fingers.

“Heh. It’d take a lot more than a little fire to kill me.”

Fire. Right. Eddy and Z are gone. His family is gone. Harry doesn’t even know where he is, really. But Niall is here. Everything is okay. He repeats it to himself like a mantra. _I’m okay. This is okay._

And Harry remembers that it’s true, it’d take a lot to kill Niall. The cane certainly isn’t for decoration.

_Woosh._

“Alright,” interrupts Louis abruptly, as if their reunion is irritating and a waste of time. Harry kind of hates him. “Moving things along. This is lovely and all, but…” A pair of hands creep up behind him, pull his arms back, and cold metal cuffs loop around his wrists, clicking shut in a taunting, rude manner. “Precaution.”

“Come on, mate, he’s not gonna escape, not now,” Niall says disapprovingly. Harry thanks him mentally, because it's been three years since he had anything familiar but he can’t shake the feeling of secureness and safety he has now that Niall is in front of him, alive and alright. He trusts Niall despite the years he's had to turn into something other than the Niall Harry knew. They’d watched each other’s backs the whole time at camp. They were closer than brothers, in a different way than he and Z were.

And so he knows that people change. Lots of people change. He’s changed a lot in three years. And even though he’s not totally sure he would give his life for Niall, horrible as it sounds, (Harry doesn't think he'd give his life for anyone at this point), he’s fairly certain Niall would give his life for him.

“Oi, be gentle!” Niall snaps as Louis yanks Harry back by his shirt collar, steering him back down the hallway. Harry trains his eyes on Niall’s wobbly knee and feels a shudder run through him and twist up his spine. _Not the cell, please not the cell._ “Jesus.”

It really takes everything in him not to struggle away. Louis’ not that tall, a good few inches shorter than him, but Harry doesn’t fight. Not because he’s scared of the guns, not really; more so because he’s tired. Tired of fighting. And Niall is here now. Niall will make sure nothing awful happens to him, just like he always has.

“He’s dangerous,” Louis tells the other man where he’s trailing behind the two of them, along with three or so other people. Harry listens to the stiff sound the cane makes, vividly aware of every time it hits the floor. “You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“I spent more than three years of me life with him,” he hears Niall grumble. “I know him a hell of a lot better than you do.”

 _People change_ , Harry thinks, and he prays it’s not quite as true as he knows it is.

The corridors are long and endless, and every time Harry thinks he’s got a hold of what area he’s in, they take another turn that leads them deeper into the compound. His legs buckle by the tenth right turn, and his steps grow more laboured, until the throbbing in his head grows too great to tolerate and he becomes dead weight in Louis’ tight hold.

“Stop fucking pushing him!” Niall growls, shoving his way past the men and helping to right Harry on his feet. Blue eyes search his own, and Harry chase away his swimmy vision with hard, quick blinks. He’s a mess. He’s a total fucking mess and he hates the fact that he’s suddenly relying on other people to get him places. He’s been alone for the past three years. He’s a _survivor_. He’s made it this far without anyone’s help and he’s not going to start with this shit now.

“You’re just a few steps away, alright, mate? You can do it. Come on.”

_“Where’s Ni?” Harry shouted over his shoulder._

_Z was behind him, a few feet away. Another round of gunfire sounded from the building ahead of them, and they ducked their heads reflexively even though the most that happened was a dusty shower of plaster bursting above them._

_“I dunno, man, I can’t see shit!”_

_The rifle burned through his gloves, sun bright in his eyes. Sweat had soaked through the back of his shirt, itching his skin. He couldn’t make out where the bullets were coming from; a third floor window? One of them, at least._

_The sun was so bright._

“How’s the leg, by the way?” Harry finds himself saying in an empty monotone of a voice. His throat feels a bit numb. Niall loops an arm around his shoulder, helps him walk despite his own limp.

The man chuckles. “Never better, mate. They don’t have me on runs, though; it’s too--” Louis cuts him off by clearing his throat loudly. There’s a brief pause.

“Right. Well. It’s a lot better.”

Harry remembers how it happened. He remembers the whole mission, how it failed, the agonizing truck ride back, the lack of medical supplies for all their injuries. The ones who weren’t lost the first time around, killed by blood poisoning days later. Niall had lived, even when they thought he’d died. It had all been Harry’s fault. All of it, and all because he had no self-control.

The room they end up in looks like a traditional conference room. The walls are plastery, crisp cement, the floor carpeted nicely. There’s a long table in the middle, chairs on either side, and a projector positioned at the far end of the room. Ben the leader sits at the head of the table, hands clasped in front of him.

He thinks he’s dreaming, or that he's tripped and fallen into a novel. Everything in this world is all far too odd to be real.

“Take a seat,” Louis tells him curtly, moving towards a chair as others begin to do the same. “We’ve a lot to talk about.”

Harry gives the table and the people around it a wary look, and doesn’t move from the doorway.

“It’s cool, yeah?” Niall reassures him. “Let’s talk. Gotta catch up.”

So Harry walks slowly, slides into the chair left open for him. Ni sits next to him and gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“How are you, Harry?” Ben says, by way of conversation. Harry remains silent, giving him a blank, empty look. “Well. I expect this is a bit of a surprise for you; the reunion and all that. Niall here has been staying with us for the past two years. He says you two got on very well.”

Niall shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“First of all, I wanted to thank you for being so tolerant of everything we’ve put you through,” Ben continues. Harry resists the urge to scoff. “It’s all been for a good reason, I can assure you.” He’s not used to the feeling of so many people watching him so intently. It makes his skin prickle.

“You’re very intelligent, Harry. It was difficult to keep track of you. The blizzard was very convenient, flushing you into the Tube. Our men just happened to be walking through when they found you.” Harry shivers, face warm. Stupid. He was so, very stupid. “Of course, we lost a life--a good one, at that. But we have to make sacrifices sometimes.” Harry pretends not to notice the way Louis’ gaze drifts down to the floor.

“Ever since you escaped from that camp, we’ve been keeping an eye out for your profile. You’re very talented. Top marks in almost everything combat-wise. Normally, the Rebellion would turn a blind eye, shun ex-soldiers, but we decided you’re too useful to kill. So we have a proposal for you.”

Harry doesn’t speak. He can’t really think of anything to say. The lights are too bright and Niall is sitting next to him and he’s really not sure what to do with himself.

“We’re planning an attack on the government,” Ben says. The breath catches in Harry’s throat. “We don’t know them like you do. None of us, aside from Niall, has been inside a camp, and we need your intel to help us win.”

There’s a moment of silence while he’s left to digest these words, and then Ben dives right back in.

“You can live here. We have beds, food, water. About 500 residents of all ages, men and women alike. A mix of survivors and soldiers who've all volunteered themselves to fight for our cause.” Survivors. Soldiers. “Of course, most aren’t trained as well as you and Niall, being in a government camp. But if you agree to help us fight this war, then we’ll help you find your family.”

“My family’s dead,” Harry says through gritted teeth. “They died a long time ago.”

“But what about your sister?” Ben presses, falsely calm. “You never saw her die, did you?”

“You don’t know shit about me,” Harry snaps tensely. “My family’s _gone._ If you want me to help you I’m gonna need some more convincing.”

“Right then. Well. You’ll get to see the camp system end, for starters. You get to see the government fall.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“That’s not enough?” Ben asks, tilting his head. “You want this to end, right? No camps. No more scavenging. No more living as a survivor.”

“H,” Niall says quietly. “Your sister may still be alive.”

“My sister’s dead.”

“You don’t know where she went. We do. We can help you find her.”

He turns his gaze up to Niall’s face, searches it for signs of lying, because of course they’re lying, they must be. They don’t know where his sister went. She’s been gone for years, and she’d promised she’d find him, and she hasn't, so there's only one plausible explanation for her disappearance.

But then he remembers this is Niall. This is the same Niall who calmed him when he was upset, who gave him his food when he was still hungry. The same Niall who refused to touch a gun for the first two weeks and withstood all the torture the leadership gave him. The same Niall who complained about his feet hurting and burnt his tongue on hot food and snuck his leftovers to the search dogs. The same seventeen year old boy who became Harry’s older brother.

For a moment, Harry thinks of Z.

“I’ll do it,” he says finally, quickly, so there's a chance they'll miss or mishear it.

A weighted and subtle quiet settles over the room. 

“Splendid,” Ben says, cold, washed, clean and careful smile spreading across the hollow planes of his cheeks.

“Welcome to the Rebellion, Harry Styles.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry has niall.

_The first time camp was raided by British soldiers, Harry was two days away from turning seventeen._

_It was one of the warmer days; the snow on the ground had turned to slush and their tents were coated in mud. It was still cold with an almost-February chill, but with the slush and mud came spring, and with spring came hope. None of them had really thought they’d make it to spring that year after such a difficult winter._

_It’d been the year of recruitment post-coup. There were new teenagers coming in every week, all looking equally as terrified and equally as weak, the same petrified expression plastered fresh over their innocent faces. Harry had begun to feel like a sort of veteran; he’d been there for almost a year and he was alive. Injuries and scars along the way were a given, but it didn’t really matter, did it? He was_ alive _._

_He hated this place, but he also had friends for the first time in his life. Not just classmates or his parent’s friend’s children; not just neighbors and orphans met in abandoned apartment buildings with nothing else to do. He had proper friends who he loved like brothers and who loved him right back. So he never really felt that alone, not with Z and Niall and Ed by his side._

_It was the middle of the night. Pitch black out. Silent and serene, but of course, while others were asleep, Harry was awake._

_The last birthday he’d spent with his parents was his twelfth. He played it over and over in his head like a tape; play, rewind, play, rewind. And then he heard rustling from outside his tent, and the world seemed to stop with an awful tremor of crippling terror, because the guards liked to fetch soldiers in the night and take them round a secret patch of wall to kill them. He figured this was it--he was a good shot but not a good soldier, didn't have the build for running or the heart to kill. He wasn’t_ meant _to live until his seventeenth birthday._

_The noise that followed sounded like firecrackers from where he was. Could’ve been a couple of kids who set them off as a prank. They’d pay hell for the punishment tomorrow, but Harry breathed. He wasn't going to die._

_Then he heard shouts, and then he heard guns, and wasn't so sure._

_They’d leapt out of bed one by one, Harry instinctively reaching to shake Z awake._

_“H, what the fuck?”_

_“We gotta go,” he said breathlessly. “Now. We gotta go.”_

_They’d tried to run, not staying to look at the damage. People could’ve been dead, but it didn’t matter, because while the leadership was occupied they could try and get out. They had no plan. No food, no water, no weapons._

_They had realized, later, that they’d forgotten to wake up Josh._

_That was their first escape attempt._

 

*

 

Harry gets to shower and change his clothes after the meeting.

The cuffs have been removed; they obviously trust him well enough not to run off again, but the thought crosses his mind for a split second of thrilling exhilaration. It’d be so easy to get a hold of a gun and get the hell out of this place. But things have changed now.

The shower should probably be a lot more enjoyable, but he thinks water repulses him now after being in the wilderness for so long. There's the time when the ice over the lake cracked and he went surging into freezing water, or the time he tried to wash himself off in a stream but got pulled away from the shore by the force of a vicious current. He knows how hard it is to get a hold of _clean_ water, as well, and the hot streams washing over him tell him just how lucky these people are.

He washes his hair quickly and towels off. It’s clear that only bad thoughts are associated with water, so he stops thinking. 

He rejects the army green shirt that’s been laid out for him in the dressing room, instead tugging his black thermal back over his head. He catches sight of himself in the mirror and starts before stopping himself. It’s him. That’s what he looks like. That’s the face of Harry Styles. He realizes it’s been a good few months since he’s seen his own reflection, and since then he’s been mobbed and mugged and faced the harshness of winter alone. He looks far older than 22. The worry lines in his forehead aren’t really worry lines anymore--they’re just lines.

The pants are too loose and too short. He’s gotten lanky now from lack of food. He’s always been a bit long-limbed, but now he just looks more like a skeleton. His hair is overgrown, long past his shoulders.

He thumbs at the tattoo on his left bicep, a stick and poke of watery, pale ink from when he was eighteen. Z, Niall, Ed and himself had given each other a tiny paper airplane, fairly sloppy and faded from years past. He wonders if Niall’s still looks the same.

He sighs at his reflection. It’s been too long a day to be digging up these old memories.

There’s a knock on the door. “H? It’s me.”

Harry hums and hears the handle turn. Niall walks in, and they share a glance in the mirror; he does look older. It’s the same Niall, but he’s not sure it’s the _same Niall._

“How you feeling?”

“Um. Been better, I guess?” He busies himself with folding his old dirty clothing.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

There’s a long moment where neither of them speak; Niall stands leaning against the door with his arms crossed, and Harry gazes at the floor while running his fingers through his damp hair repeatedly.

“How long?” Niall blurts out suddenly, and Harry blinks.

“Wh--”

“How long were you alone?”

Harry scratches his chin. “Uh, three years. I think. Almost four? I’m almost 22. I think. So.”

“Fuck. Four years, that’s a long time.”

“Yeah. Um. It’s not...been easy.”

It’s not a lie, and he won’t sugarcoat it. There were definitely times when he’d surprised himself with his own survival skills. Groups of post-epidemic survivors and sick people whose illnesses had been festering inside them for years didn’t take well to lonely ex-soldiers, and he’d learned that the hard way.

“How’d you get out? Of camp, I mean,” he asks softly.

“Er, not totally sure, if I’m honest. I saw an opening and I grabbed a gun and ran. You were gone, and Z was gone, so…” Niall takes in the dazed look on Harry’s face. “Jesus, I’m sorry. I forgot, it’s been...well, I’m sorry, yeah? I don’t know, man, it’s been such a long time since I’ve seen ya. Thought about all you a lot, missed you like hell.”

“I missed you too,” Harry replies. “I didn’t think you made it out.”

“Heh. I thought the same of you.” The small smile Niall’s been wearing fades. “After Ed, you know...it hurt too much to go back and find you. Thought I’d find everyone charred and dead, and. I dunno. I could only take so much.”

Harry gets a mental image of a younger, skinnier, more innocent Niall, walking in through the gates of camp to piles and piles of burnt bodies, and feels an awful coldness spread across his chest. 

“I went back,” he says, and his voice sounds distant and far away from his body. “A few days after.”

“Fuck, H.”

“I just needed to know if...if he was there. But. He wasn’t. I couldn’t find him.”

“You were always stubborn as hell.” Niall’s smile comes back; small, but there. “You’ve got no idea how shitty it was to know you were alive and watch them track you. I swear to God, I wanted to find you so bad and tell you that they weren’t a camp and that they were on our side but they wouldn’t let me. It was part of the act, ya know?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Harry’s voice is dull and flat.

“I’m sorry. Really. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I know,” he answers tiredly, feeling old and aged and wearied. Niall pulls him into a hug, and he doesn’t resist. They’ve both grown since camp--they’ve become men, really, but Harry’s got a few inches on the other and it makes his chest ache, because they were just _kids,_ and none of this should've happened to them. They just didn't deserve it. 

“They’re waiting for you,” Niall says, muffled into Harry's shoulder, but doesn’t pull away.

“Yeah,” Harry says.

“Yeah,” Niall echoes.

There’s really not much more that needs to be said.

 

*

 

He’s taken down a new hallway by Louis and Niall.

The latter stays close by his side the whole time. Louis is evidently wary of Harry, even still; Harry understands, because it would be stupid if he wasn’t, but he doesn’t really understand how the man has the right to be so when _he’s_ the one who put Harry through all this shit.

So. He still hates it here. But having Niall near him now makes him a little more tolerant of everything.

“You’ll be in a cabin with four others, including Niall, who will stay with you temporarily until you adjust to everything,” Louis explains curtly. He’s all about business, as it seems. “You’re to have someone accompanying you at all times, no exceptions. You’ll do what I say when I say it and this will continue until you’ve gained our trust.”

“He’s one for the dramatics,” Niall murmurs inconspicuously, nudging Harry’s side. It takes a lot not to flinch away. “Ignore it, yeah? Nothing they can force you to do, not with me here.”

“Right,” Harry replies unsurely, eyeing the way Louis’ shiny boots hit the ground heavily. He sees their differences in even the way they move; heavy footsteps means disregard for danger, shiny boots means time for maintenance and vanity. Harry trained himself to walk carefully a long, long time ago.

“You’ll get three meals a day, breakfast at 7am sharp. And you’ll have to pay your dos here as well, gain the trust of everyone else. They don’t like you much, not after killing…” The man trails off, words lost and fallen limply as the three turn a corner to face a heavy metal door, armed by two guards.

“Lads,” Louis greets. “The new kid.” He jerks his head back at where Harry stands, hair covering his face and eyes searching his surroundings, antsy and twitchy, like some kind of animal. He probably looks wild.

One of the guards says something incoherent that makes Louis chuckle. The door beeps and then slides open, making way for a cleaner, tidier set of doors; wood panelled and sleek and shiny and so unlike anything he’s seen in years. Each one seems to have a label, displaying a number and a letter. It’s so much like camp and yet so different he has to shake himself.

“Don’t worry,” Niall pipes up. “Was a shock when I walked in as well. Lot of memories, yeah?”

Harry doesn’t answer. There are only so many old wounds he can dig up in a single day without losing his mind.

“Well, we’ve got a bit of a special status now, me and you. Camp vets. The others, they’re great, ya know, but they don’t get it. Not like you do. Man, it’s gonna be so good to have you here.” Harry hasn’t forgotten Niall’s chattery tendencies. They got him in trouble a lot back in the day. Louis doesn’t seem very bothered by it now, and somehow that starts a resentful ache in Harry’s chest because it should’ve been _him_ tolerating Niall’s most talkative moments all these years, not some London Rebel who’ll be dead before he's thirty.

They finally stop in front of the last door on their right, Louis rapping two quick knocks against the wood before opening it without waiting for a reply.

“These are the lads,” Niall whispers in his ear. “They’re the top soldiers here. Don’t let ‘em push you around or fuck with you, yeah? They mean well.”

“Alright, group. To attention please.”

Three bunks are pushed against each wall of the little dim room, with the bed farthest from the door in between two tall dressers. The floor is stone tiled, and the walls a light steel gray. In the middle is a table, cards scattered across. Three young men, all a bit older than him, turn their heads up in unison to look at the the three standing in the doorway.

“Uh oh, Lou’s gone all formal on us. This must be bad,” one of them teases, dropping the book he’d been holding and sitting upright on his bed. “Who’s this?”

“This is Harry Styles,” Louis says, ignoring the comeback. The men’s faces all change from amused to surprised to serious in seconds. “He’s from Niall’s camp. You’re to treat him nicely. I don’t want to hear any shit from anyone, yeah? All of you are gonna be considerate and welcome or you’ll see to me.” Harry eyes each of them, gives them a once over. Not particularly _special_ , nothing that he didn’t see at camp. Not as worn or adept-looking as Niall and himself, not by any means.

Louis points to the one on the bed. “That’s Nick.” Nick gives him a wave. Harry’s wrists strain, skin thrumming against the metal cuffs. Louis points to one with a fan of cards clasped in his fingers. “Tom.” Tom doesn’t look too pleased with all this. “Liam.” Liam peers at him curiously, head tilted.

“You’re going to be staying with them and Niall until we have a separate living quarters for you,” Louis says, turning to look at him. “Your schedules are distributed at dinnertime. You’ll be handed off to me in the morning, no shooting or any of that shit. Liam, I expect you to be responsible for showing him the ropes. If he’s not with you in the cafeteria or in here, he better be with me. No sneaking off or some shit, yeah?”

“You got it, boss.”

“If you’ve got a problem with him report to Niall,” Louis continues, as if Harry isn’t standing right there. “Chances are whatever your problem is...well, Niall will be able to solve it.”  _Console,_ Harry thinks, as Louis gives him a sour expression.  _He means console me; not solve it._

Louis lifts up his wrist to check his watch. “It’s just about dinnertime. Be good.” With this, he slides a silver key out of his breast pocket and unlocks Harry’s cuffs. Harry waits until Louis is a good two feet away to stretch his fingers out, rotating his wrists slowly. There are red marks embedded into his skin, angry enough to sting but not deep enough to bleed. His ribs ache from holding himself up for so long.

“I’ll see you lot later,” Louis finishes, turning and leaving him standing there in the doorway with Niall by his side.

There are a couple minutes where the three new men just stare at him, waiting for something to happen, for someone to make the first move. Harry doesn’t. Doesn’t want anything to do with any of this, really. And nobody goes to invite him to sit or anything. He must be very interesting to look at if they can stare at him for so long, and so intently.

“Right. Okay.” Niall touches the small of his back and guides him to the lower bunk of a bed. “You’re cool with this one, yeah?”

Harry nods minutely. He doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want to be here.

“Um.” The atmosphere is all too awkward and heavy. He sits himself down on the edge of the bed and rests his elbows on his knees, rubbing his temple.

“I’m Liam,” one of them says. Brown puppy eyes, brown hair. Not a fighter by any means. “It’s good to meet you, Harry. Welcome to our place.” He smiles kindly. Harry gives him a once over. The smile fades.

“I know I’ve told you about him already,” Niall says, “But yeah. This is...Harry.” He doesn’t ignore the way Niall lingers on the name, so much more used to calling him ‘H’ than anything else. “We were at the same camp for three or so years. Uh, he was there before me, taught me everything I know about the camp system and, well, don’t fuck with him. Better to fuck with me instead so I can deal with ya.”

“You don’t have to say that,” Harry says flatly, trying to enjoy the way the three men jump at his voice but instead just feeling kind of miserable.

“We wouldn’t do that, mate,” the one named Nick says. “We respect Niall, and camp soldiers, yeah? You guys go through twice as much shit as we do.”

Harry’s eyes drift over to Tom, who’s still giving him a cold glare as if he’s done something to piss him off. From the look on the man’s face, he’s very unhappy with the prospect of Harry living here.

Well. That makes two of them then.

“You hungry, H?” Niall asks him after a moment. “I can bring you something back if you want?”

Despite having not eaten all day, the thought makes him feel sick. He thinks of the endless road he’d been walking and the cracker rations every couple of days, the icy cold water that took too long to filter and purify and the blistered soles of his feet.

“I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Alright, I’ll stay.”

Ni takes a seat next to him, and the other three leave, Liam giving him a gentle smile as they turn away. He’s tired. So fucking tired. He craves the winter cold and the burning sting on his cheeks and something familiar. Normal life.

“Where were you going? While you were on the move?”

Harry buries his face in his hands. His tongue moves slowly against the back of his teeth, a million words pent up in the back of his throat with no possible release. He doesn’t know, is the thing. He had no plan, all those years he was wandering. Staying alive and waiting for the day when he wouldn’t be anymore. He was sure at some point he’d encounter a group too big to fight off, a pack of dogs too hungry to let him live, a blizzard before he could find shelter. All that time spent looking for a sister he was certain had died, those nights spent in hiding, the nightmares and the terror and the bodies he found lying in the street.

He never even had a _lead_. He had no idea where to start, remembered only the emotional details of him and his sister’s separation. How they pulled him away first, nearly dislocating his shoulder, and how his sister dropped the baby. The desperate hopelessness he felt as the truck rumbled away.

He’s wearing these fucking sandals, those stupid Nike slides over his socks. His knife is _gone_ , the pocketknife he’d nearly died for, and all his stuff; his crackers, his canteen, his water filter, his lighter, his batteries, his _moleskine._ The picture of his _parents_.

“I need you to get my stuff back from Louis,” he says tiredly. “Please. I need all of it, I’ve worked for it, he can’t just. Take it from me.” The coherent speech part of his brain has turned off and he’s left rambling and sleepy. “He took my journal, Ni.”

“H, I don’t know what I can do to get it back, they’ll think I’m trying to help you escape.”

“My backpack, it has the picture of my parents, you know? You’ve seen it. You still have your necklace, please just get it for me.” Part of him is tempted to plead harder for it, but he knows Niall well enough to know he’s not gonna change his mind that easily.

“Listen, they’re using the journal for investigation. I’m not even allowed to look at it. Ben and Louis are the only ones. There’s no way I can get that for you. But. The picture.” He rubs a hand along the side of his cheek, gazing at the wall. “I’ll see what I can do, okay? No promises. But I’ll try.”

 _Thank you_ , he thinks, and isn’t sure if he’s said it out loud or not. He can feel his consciousness begin to float away, drifting along the still and stifling underground air. He’s so tired.

“Rest, mate. I’ll be here, don’t worry.”

 _Don’t leave me alone_ , he thinks, but falls too quickly.

 

*

 

He drifts into a state of vague awareness at some point in the night when he hears people talking.

They’re talking about him. He’s on his side, the one that isn’t bruised, hands clenched tight around the pillowcase. There’s a blanket over him that Ni probably put there. He thinks he’d been having a nightmare, he recognizes the fear in his throat and his racing heart, but he can’t remember what he’d been dreaming about.

“He never told me.” It’s Niall. “All I know was that after the fire he and the others just disappeared.”

“What about that Z guy?” Liam? Maybe. None of them have particularly memorable names. “What happened to him?”

“Don’t know, to be honest,” Niall replies. Harry's stomach hurts. “Could be dead. Could be with the government. Could be a hostage. Could be halfway across the world. He fucking vanished.”

“Was it really that bad?” one of them asks. “What did he do that was so fucking bad?”

“It’s technically classified,” Niall says. Harry’s become quite good at pretending to be asleep. “Harry’s the only one who knows the full truth. Wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“They’ve gotta find some way to get it out of him.” It’s a new voice. Must be that Tom guy who wouldn’t say a word, the one that seems to hold some weird unwarranted grudge against him. “He knows things and we can’t trust him. He shouldn’t be living here.”

Niall’s voice gets angrier, firm and sharp. “I spent three years sleeping two feet away from him. I’ve known him since he was sixteen years old. I was seventeen when they shipped me off to that place and there were three people who watched my back and he was one of them. If you can’t trust him, trust me.”

“You heard about him though, right?” The same voice, Tom. “He’s a _Molly._ ”

There’s the sound of a foot slamming heavily onto the floor. A few heavy breaths.

Niall. “Don’t ever fucking use that word. You think I don’t know this shit? Three _fucking_ years, Tom. I don’t give a shit about your personal views. You use that word on him I’ll kill you before he has the chance to.”

Somehow, Harry dozes off again.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry meets the group.

The most unsettling thing Harry discovers when he wakes is that he has no idea what time it is.

There aren’t windows or lights or a clock or anything; no wind rushing over his head or rustling his coat, no snow settled into the crevices of his clothes or lacy tree branches above him. Just four other sleeping bodies breathing evenly. He hears a few snores and instantly knows that none of them are from Niall. They'd trained themselves not to snore at camp, when the slightest sound could piss someone off and provoke a beating if one was in the mood for it.

Harry sits up, rubs his eyes. His nights in solitude adjusted him to the silence but he suddenly feels like he’s in camp again, with the others sleeping so close to him, the sounds of breathing and covers shifting. He half expects to hear an alarm ring out that says another soldier has tried to run away.

There’s a little bit of light seeping in from the crack underneath the door. Every now and then it’ll shift like someone’s walking past.

It would be so easy to run. He’s not sure why he hasn’t yet.

 _Niall_ , he thinks, when the urge to escape tries to push him towards the door. _Niall would miss me._

He doesn’t sleep again. Or maybe he does, in short fits of dozing and restless unconsciousness. It’s a good couple hours until the other bodies begin to move, and another few minutes until the lights flicker on. By this time, he’s already slipped on his shoes and is patiently flipping through an abandoned book that’s been left on the floor.

Niall climbs down from the bunk and gazes at him drowsily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The mood has turned somber and nobody dares to speak.

“I’ll go get you some proper clothes,” he says, voice thick. “What shoe size are you?”

“Um.” Harry glances down at his feet. “Ten? Maybe? I...don’t know.”

“Right. Okay.” It takes Niall a moment to clumsily pull on his boots, and he picks up a toothbrush from on top of one of the dressers before stumbling out.

“You hungry?” Harry’s pretty sure it’s Liam, the one with brown hair cut close to the sides of his head and brown eyes. He’s pulling on a shirt when Harry looks at him, gets a glimpse of a jagged scar on his chest before it’s covered up. “I can bring you some food if you want.” His tone is sweet but too formal, too uncomfortable, like he's trying really, really hard. Harry appreciates the sentiment but is a little fed up with all the falsity.

“I’m fine,” he answers, the sound raw in his throat. “I’ll just...wait for Niall.”

“Alright. Lemme know if you need anything mate, yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Liam smiles. Harry knows what he’s thinking, like he can see the gears turning in the young man's brain. Liam thinks he's cracked his way through the surface of the camp soldier, the one who never speaks. Because the simple thank you must mean everything, right? It means he still knows how to be human.

If only poor Liam knew the impossibility of fixing something that’s already been broken for years.

“You should get yourself up, man,” Nick tells him. “Breakfast soon. Louis says you need to be there.”

“Nick, let Niall help him.” It’s Tom, blonde and glaring and young and crisp. He steps down from his bunk and runs a hand through his hair. “He doesn’t want us.”

And...what is that supposed to mean?

Harry keeps his mouth tightly shut. 

Niall returns soon with a stack of clothes in his arms; his eyes are droopy and tired and Harry really does see now how much he’s changed; he looks so much _older_ , not just in his face but in his mind and his soul. Where these Rebels are fresh-faced and cheery enough, there’s something shared between the two of them that only they seem to understand.

He's been brought a pair of dark blue jeans, longer than the trousers he’s wearing now, a black long sleeve shirt, a clean pair of socks and underwear, and then under Niall’s arm is a pair of sneakers. They have a hideous strip of sloppily sewn Velcro across the top, so there aren’t laces (they’re probably taking precaution) but they're definitely better than what he’s wearing now.

“How long did you go wearing the same clothes?” Nick asks as Niall drops the pile into Harry’s arms, and normally Harry would find the question intrusive, but this isn't normal, and there's no mirth behind Nick's words, so Harry decides to answer.

“I don’t know,” he says dully. “Every now and then I’d come across a body and take the jacket and boots. Sometimes a survivor would get the jump on me but I’d kill them before they could do the same to me. Sometimes I got lucky and found something new to wear.”

It’s probably the most he’s spoken since he’s been here. Niall blinks at Harry as he pulls on the sneakers, which squeeze his toes a little bit but fit alright otherwise.

“I’ll show you to the bathrooms,” Niall says slowly, carefully. “It’s a common area but there are private stalls. Just...don’t draw too much attention to yourself and you’ll be fine.”

Harry nods once, feeling a little breathless. How is he not supposed to draw attention to himself? He’s practically screaming it; long hair and tall and skinny and bruised. He's got scars everywhere and he's jumpy and scared-looking and he's also  _brand new._

For the first time, as he walks down the hallway with Niall close by his side, he’s greeted by several new faces; boys who can’t be older than teenagers, some who look around his age, young _women_ chattering amongst themselves, which Harry hasn’t seen anyone doing since...well, since he was with Gemma. Every now and then, someone will clap Niall on the shoulder and bid him good morning before looking at Harry curiously and tilting their heads in question until they realize he’s not going to say anything.

The men’s room is moderately crowded, people washing their hands and combing their hair or brushing their teeth. Heads turn as they walk in, everyone waving at Niall and flashing him bright, cheery morning grins. Of course, once they see Harry, they fall silent and then erupt into short whispers amongst themselves.

“Ignore ‘em.” Niall nudges his side. “They don’t mean any harm.”

Niall points him towards a stall. “Go ‘head and get yourself dressed, then unfortunately I’ll have to send you off to Lou.”

Louis, right. Harry’d blissfully forgotten about that.

The stall is too small to be comfortable but he changes quickly, only bumping his elbow on the wall once, and when he steps out, Niall is still there, waiting patiently and whistling to himself. People shuffle in and out and it’s unsettling how relaxed everyone is. He was used to the tension and fear that was always present at camp, and then he was used to nothing at all, and now everything seems far too normal to be real life. Like he's living in some mundane alternate reality.

Something’s off about this place, and Harry has no fucking idea what it is. 

“What does he want with me?” Harry asks quietly as they make their way back down the hallway, squeezing his old clothes tightly in his fingers and avoiding eye contact with every person who gives him that strange inquisitive look. “Louis, I mean.”

“That, I’m not sure,” Niall answers. “Even if I was, I wouldn’t be allowed to say, mate. I’m sorry.”

When they turn back into the room, Tom and Nick have gone and Liam is standing there smiling, a vivid and aggressive contrast with how Harry feels right now. 

“I was wondering if Harry wanted to come to breakfast!” Liam says cheerfully, handing Harry a folded piece of paper which he takes tentatively but doesn’t bother to read. “That’s your schedule; it was just printed this morning. I mean, I know you’re new and all but everyone’s really nice and it’d be great to meet some people, don’t you think? Don’t you think, Niall?”

“It’s really up to H,” Niall says reluctantly. “I’m happy to stay back here if you wouldn’t mind bringing some stuff back.”

Liam’s face falls and for a moment it hurts Harry’s heart, how painfully innocent the young man is despite probably being a couple years older than he is. A day in a government camp would probably kill him.

“You sure? Louis would be pleased to know you’ve been socializing.” He pouts a bit. Harry should probably be angry. He just feels kind of sad and tired.

“What do you think, H?” Niall turns to look at him, brows furrowed. “Your call, man.”

Well. Harry could go to his first meal in this godforsaken hellhole and risk his actual sanity and wellbeing, or he could stay here and wallow in all the things he could be doing outside, away from the Rebellion and civilization, in his own world. Somewhere far away from this place. All trees and snow and cold, raw, frozen nights and cigarette dealers and angry mobs. His home.

Much as he never thought he would say it, he misses that. Being alone. Being home.

“Alright,” he says finally, after a long moment of silence. “I’ll go.”

Liam’s face lights up like a Christmas tree, grinning widely. “Awesome! Right, let’s go then before it closes. Bet you’re not used to three meals a day, yeah? I mean, we’re not allowed seconds because there are a lot of people here, and everyone gets an equal serving. Like, the kids eat separately so--”

“Kids?” Harry interrupts, trying to stop his knees from buckling as the three of them begin the walk. “There are kids here?”

Liam raises his eyebrows, giving Harry a funny look. “Yeah! They live in a different section of the base, some of them with their parents, some of them in a communal home for orphans, poor things, but they go to school and everything. I’ll have to show you sometime.”

He’s not sure he can take much more; all the people around him at the moment are overwhelming enough, and the thought of being around _children_ , small, young humans who learn so quickly. It would probably kill him.

He hasn’t been around children since before camp. The youngest boys he was around after then were at least 15, and after that, he never encountered a child survivor. Not in all the three years he was wandering.

He wonders if, maybe, all the children in the world have come to live here. He wonders, distantly, if the cousin he never thinks about is still alive.

“You alright, mate?” Harry’s walking has slowed and he’s zoned out on a wall in the distance, gaze trained unseeingly. Niall pats his shoulder lightly to bring him back to his senses. “Wanna go back?”

“I’m fine,” Harry says. He’s not.

There’s a small part of him that almost _fears_ young children. Because they do learn fast, faster than anyone, and the army took great advantage of that and turned it into their own protocol. Four years is the perfect age to start brainwashing and six years is the perfect age to start military training. By ten, they’re potential killing machines, and Harry wouldn’t regard a ten year old holding a pistol any less than someone his age bearing a rifle.

The cafeteria is a huge expanse of tiled floor stretching what looks to be 100 yards long, tables and tables and tables, all seating several people. It’s a lot. More than camp saw in all the time he was there, which was really the beginning to the end. More people he's seen together in more than three years all fill the space, and it’s almost too much to process. 

“Something, eh?” Liam turns his head and smiles. “I know. Quite a sight!” He immediately stalks over to a growing line to the right, next to a counter holding tubs full of steaming food, and begins tapping his foot restlessly. The smell makes Harry feel absolutely and miserably sick to his stomach.

“I was in your shoes, a year and a half ago,” Niall tells him softly, right up against his ear. “Was fuckin’ terrifying, walking in and seeing all these people. Everyone staring at me. You’ll be okay.”

He’s not so sure about that, with the way the hush kind of drifts over the entire room, but he’ll take it and tuck it away for safe keeping.

“It’s a lot, Ni,” he says in a low, hidden whisper. Niall squeezes his shoulder tightly, and he gets the visual of Niall a year and a half ago, weathered by the hardship of life alone and scavenging, scared and by himself and surrounded by what looks like hundreds of people.

“I know.”

The funny thing is, now, as they take their places in the line, everybody greets Niall with a cheerful smile and clap on the back. A tiny part of Harry inside is jealous, jealous of Niall’s likeability and easy smile even though he knows it wasn’t always this way.

“Who’s this?” someone says while they’re waiting, nodding in Harry’s direction but not actually talking to him.

“Harry,” Niall replies simply.

A flicker of recognition passes over the young man’s face, and he nudges the woman by his side, turning to whisper something in her ear before moving on to get their food, still sparing glances back at Harry's awkwardly poised figure. He pretends to be unbothered, but there's blood moving agitatedly through his veins and it's hard to focus on anything _but_.

“Everyone here,” he mutters to Niall, “Are they all soldiers?”

“Every person here has a job,” is the answer he receives. “See them?” He points to a table farther away, buff men in the army green shirt he’d first seen Louis wearing. “They’re one of the squads who goes on runs, looks for supplies, scavenges. They’re the ones who found you in the tube.”

“Right.” A coldness creeps up his spine. “I killed one of them. Even though I thought I got two of them.”

Niall gets a crease in his brow as they each pick up a plate from the counter. “The other one lived. You nicked his collarbone, but he’s alive.”

Harry hates that he feels relief.

“But,” Niall continues, handing him a plastic-wrapped sandwich from the tub, which he accepts hesitantly, “I’d suggest you stay away from them. They’re not bad guys, but they don’t like what you did, and they’re not huge fans of our type, if you know what I mean.” Their type. Government soldiers. Harry will be plenty happy to avoid them.

There are little cartons of milk and juice waiting for them once the line moves, preserved in a tub of ice. Harry reaches out and takes a container of milk gingerly. “Are these okay?” he asks, and Niall gives him a funny look.

“Take what you want, mate, it’s there to be consumed.”

“No, I mean...fresh. Safe to drink.”

“Oh.” His face grows a little more solemn as if he’s remembering that Harry hasn’t had _milk_ since he was a boy. “Yeah. The older kids put the cartons together--clever, ain't it?--and we’ve got some goats in an underground greenhouse. So it’s goat’s milk, sorry about that. But it’s milk all in all.”

“You’ve really got this whole Rebellion thing sorted,” he says, and starts when he catches sight of all the fruit. He takes an apple and rolls it in his palm, before placing it tenderly onto his tray, as if it might break.

“Yeah. It’s tough work, but it’s worth it, especially now that you’re here.”

They survey the crowd of people for a moment, before Niall leads him to a table near the back wall, a couple people sat on the end Harry recognizes as Tom and Nick. Liam saunters up behind them, plate of food in his own grasp.

“And what do you do?” Harry asks quietly, taking a seat on the hard bench.

“Well, ya see, they don’t let me go on runs because of the leg. I’d just slow down the group, to be honest. So sometimes I’m the driver on big missions, like into the next town or summat. Sometimes I operate the training rooms, make sure everyone’s keeping calm and cool during shooting practice and practice fights, things like that.”

“What’s everyone training for?” he asks, a bit too loudly, and the three other’s heads all turn to look at him, mouths open and eyes wide.

“What are we _training_ for?” Nick repeats, sounding amused. “Seriously?”

“You’ve been pretty out of the loop, mate,” Liam replies. “Did you ever get a hold of a radio when you were alone?”

“No,” Harry deadpans. “All the stations have been down for years.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Nick tells him, waggling a finger at him. “All the stations have been down except for one. Weird you never heard about it. See, how do you think we got all these people to work with us? We’ve got to get the message out there somehow, and the only way to do it was to use radio. Of course, it’s private, so we only target locations that the government doesn’t have access to.”

“Not all of these people could’ve gotten hold of a radio,” Harry says. “Do you know how hard it is to find any kind of salvageable technology? They’re useless anyway, most don’t work. If you’re so great at tracking people anyway why not just _tell_ the survivors instead of wasting resources on radio announcements?”

The atmosphere grows tense, but Harry doesn’t regret his words. There's a constantly lingering thought in the back of his mind--what have these people seen from his years as a survivor? That time he stitched himself up after a knife fight, or the time he sprained his ankle in the woods and had to crawl his way to shelter, or the one time he let himself cry after killing a man who’d begged him for mercy because he was starving and desperate and afraid?

“I didn’t want them to,” Niall says softly, in response to Harry's racing thoughts. “They wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles, unwrapping his sandwich.

“We only knew your location some of the time. Like when our men went out and found footprints in the snow, or bullet shells from fights you were in. No one ever saw you, really.”

“How many fights _were_ you in?” Liam asks. “Because...you came out of all of them alright. From the looks of it.”

That’s almost laughable. He’s been in too many brawls with other survivors to have come out of all of them unscathed.

“One time someone shot me in the leg and I got blood poisoning,” Harry says a little defensively, taking a bite of his sandwich. It’s plain and easy to digest, and he chews it a few times, contemplating, before gesturing to the scar above his eyebrow. “Ran into a group of survivors and made it out before they scalped me.”

“Fuck,” Niall mutters, running a hand through his hair.

“Um,” Nick says. “What was camp like for the two of you?”

“Shit,” they say at the same time, and Harry feels the traces of a tiny smirk touch his face.

“You always complain about the food here,” Niall laughs, tensity long forgotten. “You can’t even imagine what it was like there.” He begins rambling about the varieties of food poisoning they all got at one point or another, having to train in the rain or the burning sun on an empty, sore stomach. Harry turns the intelligent part of his brain off; it’s been used enough for the day. He glances at Liam, deeply absorbed in what Niall is saying. Looks at Nick, nodding along to show he’s listening. Looks at Tom, who hasn’t stopped staring back at Harry in that _disgusted_ way since the two of them sat down.

Liam’s eyes fall on a point beyond Harry’s shoulder. Harry turns his head to face the entrance anxiously, and much to his inner dread, Louis is standing there, eyes searching the place for Harry. When he finally catches sight of their table, he’s stalking over in big strides until he reaches them.

“Lads,” he greets sternly with a tight nod. “Harry’s with me for the rest of the day. You’ll see him at dinner.” Harry looks to see heads all turned towards them, mouths frozen around food.

“Let’s get going,” Louis tells him. “We’ve a lot to get done.”

“I’ve not finished eating yet,” Harry retorts, trying to muster up as much coldness as he can. “Give me another few minutes.”

Louis’ eyes narrow. Harry knows he’s pushing it here, knows he’ll earn some kind of punishment later on. For now, he’s curious to see how far he can push before Louis snaps. It's a dangerous game, but Harry's got to entertain himself somehow, hasn't he? 

Harry realizes he's breaking his old camp habits, and this sends a rush of pleasure through him. He’s not going to go back to submitting under his superiors, not now, not ever. If they want him to work with them, they’ll just have to get used to him.

“I’m saying _now_ ,” Louis growls, jaw clenched and teeth gritted. “You’ve had twenty minutes to eat and it’s your own fault for not finishing in time.”

“I didn’t know you’d be coming to collect me this soon.”

“H,” Niall says quietly.

Louis gives Harry a long look with piercing blue eyes, one that seems to bore deep into his mind. He hates it.

“Let’s get going. You too, Niall,” Louis says one last time, and doesn’t wait for a response before turning and walking off. Harry sighs once, taking his time in getting to his feet and tipping the contents of his tray into a trash before following the man outside, Niall close on his heels.

It’s only a few seconds before the excited chatter of the cafeteria resumes.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry shouldn't be here.

_“Keep your eye on the target.”_

_Harry squinted one eye, skin burning in the summer heat. His finger drifted towards the trigger slowly, a barely there movement that Z would only notice if he was paying incredible attention._

_“Good. Now breathe in, hold it, and breathe out while you pull the trigger.”_

_“I know,” Harry muttered with a roll of his eyes, then squinting further, empty bottle reflecting the bright rays of the sun directly into his eyes. He inhaled, then exhaled._

_The BB pellet broke through the center of the glass, tipping it backwards so it fell off its resting place on the fence into the dusty, dead grass below._

_“Nice,” Z praised, ruffling his hair. “Pretty soon you'll be the best sharpshooter in Britain.”_

 

*

 

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll know when we get there,” Louis tells him irritably, offhandedly picking at his fingernail. As if Harry is that much of a bother to him.

“Why can’t you just tell me now?” Harry grits out, resisting the fighting urge to slap the man over the back of the head.

“Because I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“Jesus, you really are a piece of work.”

“I can still kill you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

It’s not heated enough to be _quite_  serious, but there's an edge to the words that forces a hot anger under Harry's skin, prickling the hair on his arms. Niall limps silently behind the two of them as they bicker back and forth. They keep on passing people in the hallway who cower under Harry's cold, unwavering stare, but Louis doesn’t seem the slightest bit uncomfortable by all the attention they're drawing. If anything, he looks completely oblivious.

They’re in a wing of the base that seems darker; the walls are a dense concrete and the lights flicker every now and then, floor scuffed with boot marks. It does something to Harry's chest and lungs--he gets that trapped feeling, the suffocating desperation, and the chanting voice forming from the stem of his brain: _escape, escape, escape_.

The door they turn in through is heavy, some kind of thick metal that squeals under the weight of Louis’ shoulder pushing it open. Harry’s not sure what he’d expected, but it definitely wasn’t this.

The table is what he sees first. It covers almost every bit of floor space, and the whole surface is a map; what looks to be an exact replica of the London and the towns surrounding it. Little peaks as the trees, and buildings and fields. It’s illuminated dimly by a light that shines from underneath.

“Welcome to the Hub of the Rebellion,” Niall says, brushing a hand over Harry's shoulder.

At the other end of the room, conversing lowly in a small group against the backdrop of a chalkboard, stands Jack and another woman with blonde hair Harry doesn’t recognize. Of course, Ben the leader is there too, and he turns upon hearing them enter. Harry has to fight down the sour, bitter bile rising in his throat.

“Ah, good to see you Harry!” Ben exclaims, striding towards them. “Thank you for coming.”

Harry wants to scoff, but keeps his face as blank as he can muster. _As if he had a choice._

“We’ve got a lot to go over, if you’d please be patient with us. My sincere apologies in advance.”

Hyper aware of Louis’ eyes trained on the side of his head, Harry straightens up a little bit, jutting his chin out, and all he can think is that Ben doesn't sound very sincere at all.

“Take a seat,” Ben adds quickly, as if an afterthought. “Please.”

He does, a bit reluctantly, not liking the way everyone’s eyes follow his movement. He feels too exposed, sitting while everyone else is standing, unarmed and open while those around him have weapons tucked securely into their belts, endangered while Louis stands behind one of his shoulders, arms folded, and Niall beside the other.

“So, as you know, there are a few specific things we need from you. Our first step in getting through to government leadership is infiltrating the camps. Niall’s been a great help of course, in mapping out your old camp and certain points that are unsafe, or overpopulated. He got here a lot quicker than you did, which means you’ve seen a lot more in your time alone.”

For a moment, he wonders absentmindedly--how did Niall know where to go? How did he end up in London, and why was his arrival so much sooner than Harry's? And if the Rebellion had Niall already to help them, why would they still need Harry?

“What we need from you today is just to point out some places you encountered other people outside of the government. Dealers, which Niall’s told us about, seem to be rather abundant. We also know a fair bit about survivors, both healthy and sick. Soldiers, or ex-soldiers at that, like you and Niall. And…” He pauses, tilting his head. “You mentioned something to Louis about a mob. Care to give us some more information?”

 _Not particularly_ , Harry thinks.

“Shit,” Niall hisses, eyes going wide. “You got into a mob fight?”

“Wasn’t my fault,” Harry sighs. “They got on me first.”

“Where was this exactly?” Ben interrupts. “Would you mind pointing it out on the map?”

Harry ignores the unnecessary false politeness and leans into the table, eyes surveying each tiny detail and each tiny ridge.

“It’s far out,” he concludes after a moment of close examination. “Not on the map. Wokingham.”

Someone from the team scribbles a few things on the chalkboard.

“How long ago?” Ben asks.

“Um. What’s the date?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Niall and Louis exchange glances.

“It’s February second.”

Oh. 

It’s February second. He’s 22.

“Beginning of January,” he says, mind a little distant. “They were gonna kill me, but. Well, I got them first. I guess.”

“How many were there?”

He jolts forward the old memory. Seeing the men with all their missing teeth and crooked smiles and big knives, realizing just how outnumbered he was, running as fast as he could, stumbling through the snow, tripping over a lip in the road and falling face first, bruising his chin on a patch of ice, tearing his tongue open from the impact of his jaw slamming shut. The slice on his side hasn’t fully healed yet, lines from jagged stitches he did on himself scabbing into a permanent scar. 

“Five. There were five.”

“You took down five survivors?” he hears Niall repeat back doubtfully.

“I took down three of them. Escaped before the others could get me.”

“Alright,” Ben affirms. “A mob of five survivors, sick? Right. Five infected survivors, Wokingham. Armed with…?”

“Knives.”

“Knives. Alright. It’s a start. Any other encounters in the last few months or so?”

_Yes._

The Rebellion promised him things; promised they would help track down his sister and promised he’d be safe here. They hadn’t promised his belongings back, and Harry thinks now is a good a time as ever to do a little bit of fair bargaining.

“One condition. I want my things back,” Harry tells Ben seriously. “I’ll tell you only if you get me my things back.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. Your belongings all under investigation. Just because you’re working with us doesn’t mean you’re entirely trustworthy, Harry. You could still be working for the government.”

He hears Niall splutter incredulously, but trains his gaze calmly on Ben’s face, making proper, unwavering eye contact for the first time today. Ben blinks.

“Then I guess you’ll have to find someone else to help you.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Louis mutters, exasperated.

Ben sighs, breaking off the eye contact and training his glare on the table.

“What is it you want back exactly?”

“My journal. My backpack. My water bottle. My sleeping bag. My knife.”

“Well, the mere premise of returning your weapon to you is ridiculous. You don’t need any of those survival items anymore, not now that you’re here. And your journal needs to stay with us because we still need to search it for more evidence.”

“Evidence of what?” Niall interjects. “What more do you need? Let the man have his things, he’s not hurting anyone.”

Harry knows what's in that book. All the little pieces of information about himself, the snippets of his life in the book that’s now in the possession of the Rebellion. There’s not a whole lot in that little book but it does a fair job of covering everything that’s happened to him since his arrival at camp; the fights and the nightmares and _that_ part of him, the part that would get him killed if the government ever found out. The part that these people know, the part they're judging him for.

“I’ll allow you one item, disregarding any weapons or dangerous objects,” Ben says finally, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can have one personal item aside from the journal. One. No exceptions.”

“Fine.”

“And if you’re caught using such object to engage in any prohibited activity, you will be punished.”

“Fine.” He stares Ben right in the eyes, gaze hard and stony. “I wouldn’t expect any less.”

“Good. Now, if you’d continue with your encounters and locate them, please.”

He figures Niall’s there to help him out if they break their promise and refuse to give him even that one object. He can always get a hold of a weapon if he needs to, threaten someone at gunpoint until he gets what he wants. He's good at that.

“Mid-December I met a dealer,” he says coolly, “and exchanged a pack of cigarettes for a pair of boots. You stole those boots, by the way. They were expensive. Thanks for that.” He picks at a hangnail. “Plymouth.”

Jack writes something on the board. Harry winces uncontrollably at the high pitched squeak of the chalk.

“Anything in between then and the mob?”

He pulls at a loose seam in his jeans. “One. Just one survivor. Tried to steal my shoes off my feet while I was asleep and bash my head in with a rock. Killed him.”

The atmosphere is somber and tense, as if everyone is mulling over that they're in the presence of a murderer.

“Where was this, exactly?” Ben asks, dangerously calm. 

“Can’t remember. Was in the woods somewhere.”

Behind him, Niall settles into a chair in the corner, tired from standing on his bad leg for so long. Louis shifts his weight. Ben puts a hand in his pocket, and Jack and the blonde woman whisper a few hushed words to each other.

“I’m correct when I say your camp was in Manchester, yes?" Ben inquires crisply, leaning on the table with his free hand. "They wanted to send you to Sheffield where they would be able to contain you, but there was no space?” Louis tenses for some reason; Harry can sense it, even without looking.

“Yes.”

“What were you doing in Plymouth? Surely you would have encountered London first. Or, at least, once, in the three years you were alone.”

“There was rumor of a safe haven for soldiers in Cardiff. Spent months getting there until I learned the place was a ghost town. Abandoned as a quarantine zone before I’d even gotten to camp. Shit ton of wild animals, though.”

“I heard about it too,” Niall says suddenly. Harry almost jumps at the sound of another voice that isn’t his own or Ben’s. “I met some survivors and they invited me to travel with them, couple years ago. Spent the night in the little campsite they’d set up. They kept on talking about Cardiff, said it was the only place the government hadn’t touched yet.”

“Did they ever make it?” Ben asks.

“Not sure. Spent the night, like I said, then stole some food and made a run for it.”

Harry almost laughs. They really did learn a lot from each other.

“Great. So we know there’s something in Cardiff, we should look out for Wokingham, there’s a dealer in Plymouth. Anything else you want to add, Niall?”

“There’s a camp in Cambridge,” Niall says, sounding a little sick. “Which we need to focus on first, I think. If we infiltrate, then we can take more soldiers in and see what they know. There’s another camp in Cornwall I think, not totally sure.” Cornwall. Shit. Harry had gotten so close. “Might be a smaller one in Liverpool. Don’t know about the others.”

Harry was lucky he’d managed to avoid the camps while traveling. If he’d run into one, he would’ve been executed wearing the mere clothes on his back.

The constant talking makes his head hurt and his throat ache. He’s spoken more today than he probably has in the past three years combined. All his interactions with dealers were quick, one word conversations--silent offerings of food and cigarettes. His encounters with survivors all dark and tense, careful sentences and practiced language. Hummed songs to himself under starry skies, reminding him of his humanity. Of his past. Of his family.

He wonders if Niall went through the same thing. If he woke from nightmares and bit his nails until they were stubs, bleeding and raw, or if he stayed strong and kept moving and kept his constant humor. He tells himself Niall is stronger than he is, because the thought of him in pain and fighting for his life and afraid with no one to help him makes Harry’s chest hurt terribly.

“We agreed to start on Cambridge,” Louis says. “We’ve marked up all that we know of, so Cambridge is the only logical starting point.”

Harry hasn’t been to Cambridge yet. He’s glad.

“We agreed the first camp to infiltrate will be Cambridge when the time is right,” Ben shoots back. “But. Our first step is evaluating survivors and mobs. Sick, in particular, because they contaminate the area, and we can’t have that, as you know.”

“Evaluating,” Harry echoes slowly, turning green. “What do you mean by that?”

He watches Ben’s throat bob as he swallows, and Harry instantly knows that there’s something being hidden from him.

“Ben,” Niall says. “He has to know. If he’s to trust us.”

 _Us._ That word sends a stinging pang through Harry's heart, because Niall isn’t really his anymore. Niall belongs to the Rebellion now. The Rebellion is Niall's _'_ _us'_. 

“Niall…”

“If you won’t tell him, I will. And I think you’d rather do it.”

Ben takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment before collecting himself. Harry digs his fingers hard into his own legs.

“Survivors can’t be trusted anymore, in this time of tension between us and the government,” Ben says frankly. “Sick, healthy, they all are out for themselves and have no interest in participating in our Rebellion, which means they’re a danger to our people. While we used to take survivors in by sending out messages over radio, we don't anymore and haven't for a while, because there’s no way of knowing who’s a government spy and who's really here with good intentions. We need to exterminate them before they expose us.”

“Exterminate...”

“It’s why we need the locations,” Louis explains dully. “Because we need to get rid of them before we can get rid of the camps.”

“Get rid of them? You mean kill them?”

“Yes,” Ben says. “It’s not an easy thing to do, we know, but we have to make sacrifices.”

“They’re human beings. They’re just trying to survive.”

“So are we, Harry. And we’re making a substantial difference.”

“The only reason the sick are dying on the streets is because the survivors are killing them off for you,” Harry retorts sharply. “I don’t kill people unless I have a valid reason to. You can find someone else to help you with your Rebellion.”

With this, Harry leans back into his chair and folds his arms, waiting patiently for someone to begin their attempt to persuade him into working with them, agreeing that they won’t kill off the survivors, not even in the most radical of scenarios, because Harry's help is just that valuable to them. Harry knows they can't force him to kill, not after camp. If they try, he'll buckle down for a proper escape this time.

“You don’t think it’s worth killing a few people to save an entire country of soldiers?”

“A few people won’t make a difference.” His hands clench into fists. “You don’t need to kill them. You just _want_ to. Which makes you no better than the government.”

Ben tilts his head, almost amused. Fiery rage surges up in Harry's stomach. “I didn’t realize you were so defensive of survivors.”

“I’m--”

“Especially considering the amount of times you’ve been attacked by such. I hope you know we can make it a lot easier to get information out of you, Harry.”

“Ben,” Niall says, bewildered.

“It took Niall a couple tries, but he got there. So. You can agree to help us out here, or we can stick you in a cell until you feel ready to do so.”

He hates everything. He hates how condescending Ben is towards him, like he's some kind of incompetent child. He hates the thought of Niall being tortured by Rebels, no matter if Niall is here by will or not. He hates feeling so small and scrutinized under all these intent gazes. He hates the unnatural pressure in his ears from being underground.

“Fuck you,” Harry growls. “I never agreed to take innocent lives.”

“We're not asking you,” is the reply Ben gives him, smack in the face like a brick wall, before Louis’ hand lands heavily on Harry's shoulder and scares him nearly out of his own skin.

“We can discuss this later,” Louis says firmly. His hand burns hot through the thin fabric of Harry's t-shirt. “It’s not necessary right now. We already have our plan, which is to start with the Cambridge camp. That’s our first order of business.”

“I agree,” Niall contributes. “If we have any run-ins with people who don’t have good intentions, we can take care of that when we get there. But in the meantime, Cambridge is our priority. What d’you say, H?”

What _does_ he say?

“Okay,” Harry says, with a satisfied exhale and a smug look in Ben's direction.

Ben gives an indignant huff. “Alright, fine. We’ll focus on Cambridge. But we’ll be prepared to take lives if things go wrong.”

“Always,” Louis affirms quietly.

“Good. It’s training time. I want you to show him what we spend all day doing here. Go.”

 

*

 

“I don’t like him,” he tells Niall as Louis leads them through the intricate corridors of the base, taking sharp turns without warning that almost send Harry tripping over his own feet.

“I know,” Niall replies wearily, hobbling along. “Just try not to piss anyone off, yeah? I know it’s rough, I had to learn. But it’s easier.”

“I’m trying,” he answers. It’s true. He is. But he’s going from next to no human interaction to seven people in a room staring at him, and he feels like he's suffocating, because he shouldn't be here. He's supposed to be out there.

“You won’t interact with any of our trainees,” Louis instructs, completely ignoring the exchange. “They’ll know who you are, so I’ll be watching out for them as well. Lay a hand on a weapon and I’ll chop your fingers off.”

Niall grins in his direction, and Harry’s not sure if it’s because he knows Harry wouldn’t dare touch a weapon, or because Louis’ given him an empty threat.

“What’s the purpose of this?” he asks, directed at Niall.

“Just getting you acquainted with everything.” They take another turn, and Harry doesn't think he'll ever manage to find his own way through this place. “Figure it’ll help make you feel a little more comfortable here.”

There’s not much that can make him feel more comfortable at this point, but he nods along anyway.

They walk past another person in the hall, and then another, who smiles brightly at Niall in passing, and another, who pats Louis on the back lightheartedly. The only looks Harry gets are cautious glances and concerned eyes, as if he’s out of place, and not supposed to be here. Which he’s not.

“Just in here,” Louis says, and pushes through a door to his left, and the sight hits Harry like a hard punch in the chest.

There are...a lot of people. The sound of bullets firing relentlessly. He wipes the back of his hand over his forehead and the sweat collected on his upper lip. Oh god, he might be sick. There are young men in the middle of the room fighting, throwing punches at each other in fights that look too real. It feels too real, the lights are too bright, and the way Niall is standing there next to him, beside Louis in his army green shirt...it brings back some awful memory that he wishes didn't have a place in his mind.

“H,” he hears Niall say. “You good?”

His throat feels like it’s closing up, and all he can think is that he doesn’t want to die here.

“Come on man.” A hand wraps tightly around his arm and guides him back out towards the door. With the calm steel gray of the walls and the dim lights soothing back the heat rising behind his eyes, Harry tries to breathe.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry gets a proper tour.

Sometime, long ago, Harry thinks he was scared of guns.

They were always _around_ , was the thing. His dad always had one tucked away when he was younger, and when his dad wasn’t there, his sister kept the same gun hidden beneath her belt whenever they travelled, or locked in the closet when they were stationed somewhere. The pistol they owned was drastically different from the rifles the guards held, the guns used for controlling and hurting and taking lives. So Harry definitely didn’t like them. Was always too scared to touch, if anything. 

Then there was the phase where he always seemed to _have_ a gun in his hand. The second he was through the doors of the camp gates, a loaded assault rifle was thrust towards him, his old life and his old fears taken away from him. Now he had to stay alive. Terrified teenage boys on both sides, he had no choice but to be ruthless. Because their army didn’t seem to have a great chance but they had a better chance with guns, and all Harry could really think about was protecting himself. There wasn’t any room for hesitation or fear. If he died, he had no chance of finding Gemma.

He’d had a gun towards the beginning of being alone. After the fire. A few bullets--enough, he figured, to get him through the few months he expected to be by himself. He made it one month before an attack that stole the gun, most of his belongings, and reopened an old wound he’d taken a couple missions ago. That’d been a rough patch. He still doesn’t like to think about it.

Then, guns became the things that could hurt him the most. Knife wounds were healable. Gunshot wounds were fatal. And he wasn’t worried about one killing him instantly, because that would be an easy way out. He was worried for the injury that would let him live but leave him crippled enough to not have anything worth living for.

Now, he’s right back where he started. Guns all round. Bullets firing, one after the other.

He’s not sure if Niall being here is making it easier, but Harry's trying to be grateful that he is.

“Mate, focus on me. I’m right here.”

But not with the blood coursing through his ears, louder than he can handle. Not when every intake of breath rattles his lungs like they're about to burst from his chest.

“H, look at me.”

Niall’s hands squeeze the back of his neck, turning his face up and into the light. It hurts, but it tugs him back to reality.

“I need…”

“Just breathe, yeah? I know. I know.”

And all Harry can think is that  _he shouldn't be here._

“You with me?”

His eyes focus on a dent in the wall across from him. 

“I don't belong here.” He grinds his teeth painfully. “I shouldn’t be helping the _Rebellion_ , Niall. Do...do you realize what we're doing?”

“It gets better,” Niall tells him patiently, kindly. “I promise. I was fresh in here not a year after the fire and Lou had to deal with all my breakdowns. He doesn’t wanna see you hurting. He’s just doing his job.”

“You ever consider running away?”  

“Shh,” Niall silences him quickly, a finger to his lips. “We don’t talk about that shit. It’s not an option around here.”

 _Not an option._ So what’s stopping them? What’s keeping them from leaving?  _Who's_ keeping them from leaving?

“I need air,” Harry chokes out. “I need to be aboveground, please...give me that.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t do that.”

“Boys?” Louis’ head comes popping round the doorway, and he blinks at Harry’s small, weak form crumpled against the wall, Niall practically holding him upright. “We need you in here.” Louis pauses for a split second, before adding, “Sorry.” There’s no mention of water or a short break for Harry to get his senses back, and not an ounce of remorse in Louis' voice; the moment Harry's breathing returns to normal he’s straightening in Niall’s grip and wobbling a bit before stepping back towards the door.

“I’m fine,” he dismisses at Niall’s worried glance. He takes a minute to brace himself before entering again, and this time steels himself with a minute to breathe in the smoky scent of bullets firing, the sound, the voices. It’s so, so easy to fall back into his memories of camp, almost like he's seventeen again and waking up to another hellish day of trekking through the early spring mud, firing round after round at the sky. 

“We start training at the age of twelve, for residents,” Louis explains, walking a pace in front of the two. “The ones you’re looking at here are our soldiers, essentially; they’re the ones who’ll be going out in combat when the time is right to start infiltrating the camps. They fight with us, we give them a home and food and family.” He halts beside one of the fighting rings, turning to face two of the soldiers going in a head to head training brawl, dancing around each other before one steps forward and throws a punch, to which the other ducks smoothly in response. They’re nowhere near as efficient as the soldiers at camp were, but Harry doesn’t think that’s a bad thing. Really.

“They’re fighting each other,” Harry observes. “Aren’t you worried about someone getting hurt?” At camp, organized brawls were used as more of punishments than for educational purposes; someone would misbehave and be forced to go up against a more experienced and ruthless peer twice their size. For Harry's first year, he was the weaker one. For his next year, he was one of the ruthless. He tries to block that part of his life out; doesn’t want to think about the innocent sixteen year olds who didn’t know how to protect themselves and who left the ring battered and bruised by his own fists.

Harry's a bad person. 

“They’ll face far worse out in the field,” Louis tells him. “This is training. They need to learn how to take the pain as well.”

“What do you know about being out in the field?” he asks, an edge to his words.

Louis turns to look at Harry, fierce eyes burning into his skin.

“Trust me,” is all Louis says, and turns back to face the soldiers as if nothing's happened.

One of them, the bigger one who clearly appears to be winning, knees three consecutive hits in his opponent’s stomach. The opponent falls to the ground in apparent agony, and it flips some kind of switch in Harry's brain that makes the empathetic part of him turn on suddenly, sends something hot pricking at his tear ducts, and he doesn’t think he can take it anymore.

“Does everyone get a gun?” he asks numbly.

“Only those with five years of experience, at least. The kids raised here are eighteen when they get firearms. Everyone older who comes in is required to go through a weapons efficiency course.”

“Course?”

“Basic training. Evaluation. The lot. Niall had one, you’ll have one soon.”

“We come from a camp. We don’t need basic training," Harry scoffs indignantly.

“I’m correct in that you haven’t used a firearm in four years? Maybe a little less?” Louis eyes him sideways, condescending. “It’s my job to make sure you don’t kill anyone, which includes yourself. Niall wasn’t too pleased with it either, but look where he’s at now.”

“Does that mean I’m supposed to be fighting as well?”

Niall and Louis exchange quick glances.

“It’s complicated,” Niall blurts out, too high pitched, and Harry chooses to ignore it for now, but stores the conversation somewhere deep and locks it up for his next sleepless night.

“You’ll learn everything in good time,” Louis elaborates unhelpfully. “There’s a lot to get through, still.”

The bigger fighter knocks his opponent to the ground, which shows the end of the match, and Louis quickly moves on to the next station; lines of punching bags, younger, fresher-faced soldiers throwing hits over and over and over again with taped, bleeding knuckles.

“Nobody goes out on runs until they’ve graduated from the training program. That’s usually twenty one, for our residents. For others, again, it depends.” Harry still doesn’t know why he’s here. The information he's receiving could’ve been given over a meal, not surrounded by busy soldiers. Almost like they're _trying_ to break him down. Louis strolls casually over to someone on the other side of the room, occupied by a clipboard in his hand and talking quickly and animatedly.

It’s Liam, Harry's squad mate. He looks up at the sound of Louis approaching and catches sight of Niall and Harry over his shoulder, waving pleasantly and smiling.

Louis spends a moment talking to him, and Liam tucks his pen into his pocket and nods before walking over to where Harry is standing a bit awkwardly, hands tucked into his pockets.

“We’re headed to the gym!” Liam exclaims, beckoning them towards the door. “I’m your tour guide!”

“Liam’s taking stock of supplies at the moment,” Niall explains. “It’s part of what our group does, you know, when we’re not on missions. Everybody has their own thing, it’s what keeps this place running. God knows, it’s a hell of a lot more organized than camp was.”

Camp. With no heating in the winter, no cooling in the summer. With filthy bathrooms, grimy sinks and clogged toilets. Moth eaten blankets and mattresses with broken springs and bed bugs, head lice every season and frostbite in the dead of winter. Harry was lucky he hadn’t gotten his head shaved like the others. He and Niall had managed to avoid it, but Z and Ed hadn’t been so lucky.

“Everyone does their part,” Liam says. “It’s wonderful, really. Now, we just go in here…”

Liam pushes the door open, and it gives way to a staircase descending even deeper into the ground. Harry swallows hard.

“How long did it take to build this place?”

“It was around before the war,” Louis answers. “Built by the British government as a nuclear fallout shelter. Abandoned when everyone was killed during the coup. So we took over.”

“What does the Rebellion have to do with the British government?”

“We have no affiliation with the British government. They couldn’t protect their own citizens from being forced into camps. We have nothing to do with them; at least, what they used to be. They don’t exist anymore. Not to us.”

Admittedly, that's the most comforting thing Harry's heard as of yet.

He waits for the pressure in his ears to increase as they go down the stairs; it doesn’t change, not really, just makes the pit in his stomach expand further so he just feels a bit sick.

“The gym is a fairly new addition,” Liam calls back towards the bottom of the flight of steps. “You’re free to use it whenever, as part of recreation. Most people use it to blow off steam.”

“He won’t be getting any recreation until his job is sorted,” Louis butts in. “So you can exclude him from the list.”

“I never…” Liam trails off, shaking his head once. “Nevermind. Okay.”

They stay several paces ahead of him, stalking quickly through the wide open exit into a huge room of exercise equipment--racks of weights and a long wall mirror, gym mats and cushioned benches. It’s so helplessly mundane Harry has to shake himself.

“This is it,” Liam announces. “It’s our nicest room, to be honest.”

“There are no windows,” Harry says instead of acknowledging the rows of equipment laid out before him. “Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

Liam gives him a funny look. “Not really. Being in here’s a lot nicer than being out there.”

It's sigh-worthy.

Louis checks his watch, a kind of odd tic that Harry's grown used to seeing in the man. It’s curious, the way he’s always in a rush, the way his eyebrows furrow a bit at the time. How he always stands guarded, his arms folded over his chest.

There’s something about Louis that scares Harry a little bit, and he’s not quite sure what it is yet, but it’s unsettling and strange and he doesn’t like it. At all.

“We’re an hour and a half until lunch,” Louis says. “We’ll finish up here, then go to the lab."

“Basically once you’re cleared for rec, you’ll be able to come here whenever,” Liam tells Harry. “I can give you a few pointers if you want, but from the looks of it…” He smiles a bit and jerks his head to the side, eyes flitting down to Harry's bicep.

It makes him slightly uncomfortable and he’s not sure how to react other than flail his hands a little bit uselessly.

“Alright.” Louis cuts the conversation off. “We’re off. Back to work, Liam.”

Liam tilts an imaginary cap, that same smile on his face, eyes crinkling at the corners. Harry wonders what kind of life someone has to lead in order to always be grinning. What kind of childhood he had.

“I’ll see you all at lunch.” With this, Louis is ushering Harry and Niall out of the room, leaving Liam to continue his rounds, and stirring the unsettlement in Harry’s stomach with what feels like a pointed wooden stick.

 

*

 

‘The lab’, as Louis had referred to it earlier on, ends up being a large room on the first floor, rows of computers lined up endlessly and a person sat comfortably behind each one, typing away mechanically, unblinking at the bright screens in front of them.

“What are they doing?” Harry whispers to Niall, who luckily has remained close by his side this whole time.

“They’re organizing everything. They’re communicating with other bases and people, they’re figuring out new and better ways to run this place, they’re mapping out runs and routes and they’re doing research and creating cures for diseases. They’re doing _everything_.” Niall looks out at the rows of computers, a look of childish wonder plastered on his face.

“Other bases?”

“We’ve got two other locations. Glasgow and a smaller one in Dublin. Ben and Louis and a few of our techies are the only ones who know exactly where, but it’s fuckin’ remarkable.”

Harry plays the words on repeat and stores them deep in the back of his brain.

“Where do you get the computers?”

“May not seem like it, but Ben’s actually a genius. Graduated from some fancy tech school in the states, back when he was like twenty. Before the war. You know, there was always some...discord, between everyone, but the states stayed pretty intact until this place fell to shit. Anyways, he hooked up everything early on. He took over not too long ago I think, a bit after the first Rebel group was exposed to the government and shut down.”

“ _What_?”

“Yeah. A lot of shit went down before I got here, but the Rebellion has been around for ages. Ten years, maybe? Way before we got to camp.”

Harry feels a wave of passing nausea nearly floor him completely. That’s a long time. That’s a very, very long time.

“What about Louis?” Harry asks grimly.

Niall turns to look at him, eyes questioning. “What about him?”

Harry gestures a little aimlessly with his hands. “He’s...strange.”

“Strange,” Niall echoes. “I mean, aren’t we all? I know everyone here may seem to have it figured out but to be honest everyone’s life was hell before this place. Me and you had it bad, but...don’t tell him I told you this, but I think Lou’s had it worst.”

Harry looks over at where Louis’ strolling up and down the aisles, eyes flitting over every screen. He catches sight of a scar on the back of the man's neck, subtle enough to go unnoticed if he didn't know what to look for, but _there_  enough Harry still sees it, jagged and pink.

“Worst.”

“Um. Lost a lot of family. Again, please don’t tell him I told you. He doesn’t trust you. I don’t think he trusts anyone, not after everything that’s happened. But he’s really just looking out for this place. He just wants to see the world go back to the way it was.”

“There’s no going back.” Harry shakes his head minutely, and Niall deflates a little bit, looking at him with an expression full of melancholy and pure disappointment.

“There can be. We’ve just gotta make of it what we make of it. Do what we can. It’s worth everything, saving lives.”

“So why are you trying to take them?”

Harry knows it’s probably not the right thing to say, not the fair thing to say, after everything Niall’s tried to do to help. It makes Harry feel a tiny, barely-there pang of regret, but then it disappears, because he knows he's not wrong. 

“I’m not,” Niall whispers, sounding a little too broken to be fixable.

 

*

 

They split for lunch. Louis waves them both off after giving Harry a debriefing what the researchers are doing in their hours spent working in the lab, and Niall seems glad to be free; there’s a relieved weight off Harry’s shoulders now. He’s made it to the midday meal, which means there’s one more meal until he can go to bed and mull things over.

“What am I supposed to do when we’re done?” he asks Niall in the cafeteria, weaving around laughing, piled together bodies.

“I’m not sure. Lou will come and fetch ya. Not me, though.” They collect their trays and scoot down the line. “I’ve got work to do. See, I'm a teacher.”

Harry feels the corner of his mouth twitch up. Not nearly a smile, but something more than nothing. 

“You’re a teacher?”

Niall helps him by scooping what looks like a heaping pile of bland, white mashed potatoes onto his plate.

“Yeah, ha. Not quite sure how it happened, but I love it. We’ve got about thirty kids under the age of twelve and they need someone who cares; not all of them have parents, like Liam mentioned, so someone’s gotta pull through and show ‘em some guidance. I can’t do much, but they like me stories.” Niall grins, properly. “You’ll meet them one day.”

Harry ladles a scoop of some kind of stew onto his plate; it marbles with his potatoes and the broth, thick with oil, slides off the edge and drips onto the tray.

They go to the same table they’d sat at in the morning, and Nick and Tom are already there, conversing about something that seems pointless and wasteful of words. That’s something that strikes him so off about this place; everybody just _talks_ , uses breath as if it means nothing, as if it doesn’t matter. There are so many things that need to be said and Harry hasn't heard a single one from anyone other than Niall.

“Hello, lads,” Niall greets, swinging his legs over the bench to sit. He puts his tray down heavily, rattling his fork against the plastic, and digs right in. So their previous exchange has been forgotten already. “How were your mornings?”

“Usual,” Nick answers, chuckling. “There are so many idiots over in the water department, no wonder they were put in there _._ ”

“They purify everything,” Niall explains quickly in Harry’s direction, where he places his tray down carefully and sits down. Niall gestures nonchalantly at the styrofoam cup of clear water they each have perched on the edge of their trays. “What happened?”

“It’s the same fucking work is all, and they seem to have such an issue. Squabbling like ducks, yacking away. Bloody hell. Does my head in.”

“What about yourself, Tommy?”

“Usual. Again. Not much happened. Few mentions of him.” Tom jerks his head at Harry, who straightens a little.

“He has a name, mate,” Niall says, a little disapprovingly.

“Sure. So did Gerry.”

Harry’s eyes flicker up to Tom’s face, who’s staring down at his food, frowning. He looks at Niall, whose hand is frozen midway between his mouth and his plate, fingers clutched tightly around his fork. Nick, whose gaze drops down to the floor.

“You don’t need to bring that up,” Niall remarks quietly.

“None of you seem to give a shit. You’re always going on about camp and ‘H knows me better than anyone’. Yeah, sure. Good for you. He hasn’t been here for the past two years but you have, and Gerry has, and no one’s giving a _rat’s ass_.”

“Louis does,” Nick laments sadly, and as if on some supernatural cue, Louis’ voice pipes up from behind them.

“Louis does what?” Louis chimes in sternly, looking at them through the thin frames of his glasses. Harry wonders where he got them; anything glass is rarely salvageable these days.

Tom shakes his head angrily and stands up, draining his cup of water and shoving one last bite of food in his mouth before storming off in quite a state, tipping the contents of his tray into the bin and leaving the cafeteria with a stormy mood in his wake.

“What’s his problem?” Louis asks, seating himself in Tom’s place. Harry’s eyes focus on his face without thinking, then his stare travels downwards to another scar on Louis' neck.

Louis notices, and narrows his eyes suspiciously.

“He’s still upset about Gerry,” Nick says.

Louis sighs heavily now, scratching along the scruff on his chin. A bit of hair falls into his face.

“Who isn’t fucking upset about Gerry?” he questions rhetorically, throwing his hands in the air.

“Who’s Gerry?” Harry asks finally, and all heads turn towards him.

“Damn me.” Nick shakes his head solemnly. “I’ll go talk to Tommy.” He removes himself from the table, following the same trail Tom had.

“The group you ran into in the tube,” Niall says slowly, treading lightly through his words. “One of them, Gerry...well, I know you didn’t mean it.”

In this second, everything in Harry's mind clicks together.

“Shit.”

“They were...close,” Niall continues. “He just needs some time. He’ll warm up to you. Promise.”

Harry scrapes his fork along the bottom of his plate, appetite long gone. He pictures the boy’s face in his mind; hears the " _No!"_. It echoes and echoes and echoes, bouncing off the walls of his skull. In his memory, blood stains his hands.

Might as well add that to the metaphorical crimson mess already coating his fingers.

“Harry, can I speak to you for a minute?” Louis asks suddenly, and Harry waits expectantly with his eyebrows raised before Louis rolls his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose in a manner of exasperation. “ _Privately_.”

Privately. Harry nods once and gets up slowly, trying to reassure Niall by smiling but grimacing instead. He follows Louis out, through the doors of the cafeteria and around until they reach a hallway that’s silent and empty. Louis whirls around, eyes fiery and mad and something else, something he can’t quite figure out.

“I know it’s hard for you. Being here.” He’s a few inches shorter than Harry and has to tilt his head up so they’re face to face. “And some people would be good with...what you are. But some wouldn’t. You know what I’m talking about, right?”

From the sounds of it, from the midnight exchange while his squad mates thought he was asleep, Harry's pretty sure he does.

_"He’s a Molly."_

“I can’t tell you how it got out,” Louis says, all business-like, not breaking their eye contact, “But word passes quickly here, and you need to be careful. Not everyone is as tolerant of these types of things as Niall and I are. Tom doesn’t like you already. Doesn’t help he’s a piece of shite homophobe.”

“I’ve never told anyone,” Harry murmurs, voice so soft no one else would be able to hear, if it wasn’t just the two of them.

“You’ve told someone.” Louis doesn’t need to say anything more for Harry to understand, and it makes his throat burn knowing that Louis’ read his journal, every private word written there. “But that’s not gonna fucking happen around here. You don’t speak a _word_ of it, or someone’s going to kill you, and we can’t let that happen.”

“What made you decide to help me?” Harry holds his body still, unmoving, waiting for Louis to make some kind of minute mistake.

Louis steps an inch closer to him, so close Harry can make out the freckles on his nose, the scratch under his eye.

“You aren’t entitled to any of my answers. You take the advice I give you and you don’t ask questions. Some things you just shouldn’t know, anyway. You’re not like us.”

“No. I’m not.” He turns his chin down. “I’m not like you. I don’t try to conform to an asshole’s rules because I think he knows what’s best.”

“You’re like Niall,” Louis growls. “Niall had to _learn_ how to be a member of the Rebellion. You will too. You and Niall just differ in that he makes an _effort_. You’re not _trying_ , Harry. Try fucking harder and get people to like you or you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“I have all the friends I need, thanks.”

“Guys?” The voice comes from behind Harry, and he turns quickly to see Liam, who’s standing at the end of the hall looking very, very worried. Louis takes a step away from Harry. “Everything alright?”

Harry turns back to look at Louis. His eyes are vividly blue. It scares him.

“Fine,” Harry says calmly.

“Everything’s fine.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry's old wounds are past healing.

 

 

_ “Okay. Then...what year were you born?"  _

_ “Leave him alone, Ed.”  _

_ Harry didn’t remember their names, the ones he shared a tent with. There was Ed, the one with mussed red hair and a scruffy beard. Blue eyes that held nothing in them when he looked at Harry. They were the familiar eyes of someone who had nothing left to lose.  _

_ Harry pulled his knees closer to his chest. The blanket underneath him was scratchy through his thin pants, gray and cotton and badly-cut, identical to everyone else's required uniform. _

_ “I’m just   _ wondering  _. Kid's gotta have a name.”  _

_ “Give him time. Remember how long it took you? You nearly shit your pants.”  _

_ “Hey, that’s not true. I was perfectly collected.”  _

_ The other one laughed. “If by collected you mean scared out of your goddamn mind, then yes, you were.”  _

_ The purple-red bruise on Harry’s head throbbed; his hands trembled and quaked. The bottom of his spine spasmed, leftover shocks from the needles pressed in earlier. He willed himself not to think of Gemma, and failed.  _

_ “What’s your name?” another boy encouraged kindly. Harry thought his name might've started with an J. Either way, it didn't seem that important to remember, at least, not at the time. _

_ A hand drifted closer towards Harry, a weak attempt to get him to open up a bit, and Harry croaked out a cry of terror. No sound quite came out; only a raw and hollow rasp, because his voice was gone from all the screaming. His hair had dried pressed to one side of his face so it was crusted into an an odd shape, and a cut on the side of his cheek burned with lack of care. Rain pattered, deafening, against the roof of their tent.  _

_ “It’s alright.” The one opposite the redhead furrowed his brows in concern. “We’re not going to hurt you.”  _

_ Harry caught sight of a dark figure in the shadows over the redhead’s shoulder, watching him intently. He could make out thick black hair, flopped over the boy's face, and haunted dark eyes reflecting the candlelight on the side table by the bed.  _

_ “Ha--Harr--...” His voice failed him again.  _

_ “Harry?” the redhead exclaimed brightly. “That’s your name?”  _

_ Harry nodded once, shuddering with a tie-dyed mix of bitter cold and petrifying fear, and the dark eyed boy shifted in the back of the tent. Harry paused for a moment, then shook his head instead.  _

_ “H,” he coughed. _

_ “H? You want us to call you H?’  _

_ His eyes fell back to the dark figure, who was still watching him. The boy might’ve been a ghost. Harry might’ve been imagining him.  _

_ Harry nodded again.  _

*

“H,” Niall calls after Harry where he’s following Louis to a new, unexplored part of the base. “Wait up!”

Harry slows his pace and glares--a little pettily--at Louis' back, where the man is still walking and not letting up his speed.

Niall catches up to him, panting. “Sorry, I just...sorry. I was wondering. There’s this thing that me and a bunch of the boys do on Fridays, it’s like...this music night? We’ve got a bunch of guitars, there’s a piano. Folks singing. Some kids, too. Lou doesn’t normally come but if you mention it I’m sure he’d accompany you.” They walk alongside each other now, still caught several yards behind Louis. “It’s always good fun. Might be nice. What do you say?”

Harry trains his eyes on his sneakers. “I...don’t know.” He hasn’t heard music in forever, and music has always been a familiar comfort to him, but children, and people, and loud, unrelenting noise? He feels sick at the mere premise.

“You don’t have to. But think about it?” He sees the hopeful plea on Niall’s face and suddenly he feels like an awful person.

“I will. I...I promise.”

Niall’s face lights up, and it’s worth it.

“Awesome. Hopefully I’ll see you there. After dinner, eight o’clock. If I don’t see you at dinner, just...remember.” Niall smiles, touching Harry's shoulder once before turning and jogging off. Louis glances back, and when he sees how far apart they are, gives a huff of annoyance, but doesn’t say anything.

“Where are we going?” Harry asks, quickening his pace to catch up.

“You’ll see shortly.”

A wave of irritation and anger makes Harry's skin hot and itchy.

“I’m not sure you’ll like it though,” Louis mutters, as if he doesn’t expect Harry to hear, and he frowns.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Louis checks his watch again. “All in good time, Styles.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sure thing, Styles.”

Harry clenches his jaw and tries to stifle the angered screaming threatening to release from the back of his throat.

He recognizes the place when they step through the doors. It’s the infirmary, where he’d ended up in on his first day. His wrist begins to ache along with the memory. It still hasn’t fully healed, joint clicking and crackling every now and then, constantly hurting with overuse. He doesn’t think it ever has a chance of healing, after everything.

“What are we doing here?”

No reply. Harry feels kind of silly for expecting one.

There’s a teenage boy with wire framed glasses perched on his nose, scribbling something on a piece of paper in front of him in loopy handwriting. He looks up when they walk in, capping his pen and placing in carefully on the table. He stares at Harry ungraciously, giving him a once over, and Harry shuffles in his place a little awkwardly.

“We’re here for Jack,” Louis requests.

“Right,” the boy squeaks. “One moment.” He taps a button on the phone in front of him, designed like a rotary but with letters instead of numbers. He only rotates the dial once before picking up. Harry wonders if Ben designed this, too.

“Louis’ here to see you,” the boy says into the receiver, and puts the phone down. Jack comes round the corner momentarily, and Harry just  _ remembers _ him from the god-awful tests before, and the meeting in the Hub; the tear gas and the shocks, the way Jack stood there and watched as Harry was strapped to a chair unwillingly, and Harry instantly dislikes him.

“Hi, boys. Good to see you again, Harry,” he greets pleasantly, and beckons them back down the hall in the direction he came from. It’s too polite and too tense and Harry fears something bad is coming; another test or drug or  _ something  _ . 

“So, we’ve just got a routine physical for you today,” Harry's told as they walk through the open door to what looks to be the clinic Harry was in before, a cot with crisp bedding and restraints hanging off the sides, clipboard resting on the wall, a spotless mirror, shelves and cupboards.

“Have a seat,” Jack instructs. Harry's heart pounds loud in his chest and ears. This isn’t right. This shouldn’t be happening.

_ They’re going to hurt you  _ , the voice in the back of his head whispers tauntingly.   _ Don’t trust them. They’re going to hurt you.  _

His hands clench and unclench. Louis' watching him--he can feel it.

“It’s alright,” Jack reassures. “Everybody has to have one. It’s not out of the ordinary.”

But all Harry wants is to press himself into the wall behind him, hard enough so he disappears and melts into the structure of the base and never has to face another human being again.

“Harry,” Louis says, not harshly, but with an edge that makes it evident the physical isn't an option. “Sit on the table.”

And Harry knows he has to get out of here.

He feels sweat spring up on his hairline, camp flashbacks resurfacing and forcing their ways to the forefront of Harry's memory. The clinic and ‘sit on the table or we’ll have to make you’ spoken in a rough accent by the translator, the screaming from every direction. The screams of the other boys, the frantic shouts of the doctors trying to control them, Harry's own screams, and the horrible needles.

“Harry, you’re safe,” Jack soothes. A hand wraps around his bicep and Harry tries to shake it off but it doesn’t budge. “Promise. All I’m asking is for you to sit on the table. That’s it.”

Okay. He’s okay. He can do that. 

With a steeling exhale, Harry stumbles to the table, pushing himself up into a sitting position. His toes barely scrape the floor from here, and he gets a burst of hatred for these sneakers he's wearing. He wants to _burn_ them.

“Good. First I just need to ask you some questions, okay? Nothing special, just the standard."

Louis folds his arms again, leaning against the closed door, and Harry nods once, feeling small.

“What’s your birthday?”

“Um.” The pause he takes to bring it to mind would be laughable if it weren't so sad. “February first. Two thousand.”

Jack makes a little mark on his clipboard.

“Have you ever been vaccinated?”

“Um,” Harry stammers again. He doesn't think so. Probably not, unless the clear substances they shot him with when he got to camp were vaccines. “I don’t know.”

“Well, have you ever had measles? Chickenpox? Common cold?"

Harry knows he'd had the cold child, the result of a weak immune system and fragile bones. He’d never gotten measles, or chickenpox, but those vaccines were supposed to rule out the flu as well, and he seemed to  _always_ have the flu before camp cured him of his fragility.

“I don’t know,” he says nervously, too afraid to answer.

“You can be honest with me,” Jack says gently. “It’s all classified, I’m not allowed to share with anyone, and neither is Louis. The only thing that changes is we vaccinate you or we don’t. We just can’t have you passing on anything to the kids who aren’t old enough for certain shots.”

Harry picks at his fingernail. “...No. Then. I’ve never. Been vaccinated.”

“Alright. When was the last time you got cut with an object, like metal or glass?”

 _Every day for the past several years_ , he thinks. “Recently," he says instead.

“We’ll do Tetanus as well, then. Bitten by an animal?”

He shivers. “A couple years back. Dogs.”

“Rabies, then. You been shot at all, ever?”

 _Too many times._ “Yeah. But I was stitched up and always got the fragments out.”

“How do you know you always got the fragments out?” Jack raises an eyebrow, a blatant questioning of Harry's medical knowledge. It tickles him how oblivious Rebels are to the realities of camp life.

“I didn’t die of blood poisoning," he says with a small shrug.

Both men opposite him sigh. Louis, eyes focused on the wall, pulls his bottom lip into his mouth.

“When was the last time you were sexually active?”

Harry chokes his own intake of breath, spluttering and blinking rapidly. Palms sweaty, his thoughts begin racing, because he doesn't want to _face_ these topics again. He thought it was _over._ There are too many bad memories that’ll send him right into another distressed state, too many wounds that can’t be healed, that’ll _never_ be healed.

“It’s alright, again, completely classified. Everyone gets asked the same. We can’t have you getting sick or anything.”

But Harry can't force it out. He can’t relive and reopen the old hastily-covered wounds, and the breath gets stuck in his throat when he tries to speak, no words brutal enough or painful enough to pin as an image to what he went through. Nothing to describe what it was like to be who he was, _where_ he was; nothing to make Jack or Louis understand why he can’t tell them anything. He gets an image of the grimy floor of the bathrooms, blood and sweat and tears all dripping into his eyes as he screams for help but help never comes.

“I…I didn’t...” he stutters uselessly, searching desperately for the answer that won't make him seem like some damaged victim. He feels the ghosts of hands grasping for his calves, for his hands, for his arms, grasping for his hair and his throat and his thighs and he shudders.

“Just tell me when. If ever. That’s all. You don’t need to say anything else.” Harry can't feel the burn of Louis’ eyes on him anymore, and he can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“Camp,” he finally gets out, numbly. “I...it wasn’t...they didn’t…”

“Four years ago?” Jack asks, not unkindly, but Harry can hear the pity worming its way through his harmless words. “Just then?”

“After...after I got to camp.” He rests his elbows on his thighs and cradles his hands under his chin, squeezing hard. The pain in his fingers and jaw tugs him a little closer to reality. “It was a lot, I didn’t...fuck, I didn’t...it wasn’t my choice, I didn’t know…they were gonna kill...I didn’t _want..._ ”

“Goddammit,” Louis mutters somewhere off to the side.

“We have people who can help you if you want to talk,” Jack tells him quietly, and almost tranquilly soft. “At all. But thank you for telling me.” Harry hides his face in his hands and hears the distant scratch of pen on paper. 

“Are you having any pains right now?” Jack asks, and the pity's still there, lingering and rubbing itself into Harry's pores, making him feel even dirtier than he already does. “Anything that doesn’t feel right?"

Harry shakes his head, an uncomfortable jerk. It’s not really an answer; neither yes nor no. He doesn’t really _feel_ anything and at the same time his whole body is consumed in indestructible  _feeling._

“Alright. I’m gonna go prepare a few vaccines, but first, if you could just step onto the scale...”

He pushes himself off the table and takes a couple wobbly steps towards the other end of the room. He feels like he’s five again and nothing has changed. He half expects someone to hand him a dinosaur sticker and a lollipop and send him right off home on his merry way.

He’s weighed and measured and instructed to sit back down and wait, as if he really is a child, while Jack goes and collects the things he needs. Harry knows what vaccinations are, knows their long-term preventative immunity, but in between now and then he's got to face the  _needles,_ and even after he's been beaten and shot and nearly killed, if there's anything Harry can't stand, it's needles. He’s half tempted to make a run for it now.

Louis is silent when Jack leaves. He almost looks uncomfortable, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“I’m not damaged,” Harry blurts out defensively, after a minute of sickening silence. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“I never said you were,” Louis says simply, no reflection of anger of annoyance in his voice. Not like there usually is.

“You’re looking at me like I’m damaged.”

“I’m not looking at you like anything.”

“I’m just--”

“You don’t need to explain yourself. I get it.”

Harry wonders if Louis actually gets it or if he’s just saying that in a gesture of sympathy and understanding. He thinks back to Niall’s " _Louis’ had it worst_ ," and wonders if that's completely true. If Louis’ past is so painful he’s become distant and cruel overtime, or if he’s just always been this way.

He doesn't have time to mull it over. When Jack returns, he’s holding a small box of supplies, and Harry's mouth goes dry, eyes immediately falling to the syringes, plastic caps over the delicate needles. He thinks his stomach is about to come right up his throat.

Jack notices his pallor, the greenness of his face and the grimace resting over it. “Don’t worry, it’s painless. There’s a numbing agent.”

That’s not why he’s afraid, though. There are too many _things_ about needles--punctured veins, clear substances with long names he can’t pronounce, restraints and gloved hands and the drowsy, blurry, dreamy shininess of being drugged out of his mind.

“Push up your sleeve for me,” Jack says, still calm and collected and oblivious to the inner turmoil of Harry’s past trying to force its way forward. Harry does, but his fingers tremble.

Jack swipes a cold swab over Harry's upper arm; it stings for a split second, and fear wraps around Harry's insides and squeezes, and then the spot goes numb, and when the doctor turns away Harry pokes the skin there gingerly. It doesn’t feel like skin...might as well be a lump of meat. It bothers him more than the pain of a needle would.

Harry looks away when the syringe Jack’s holding catches the glint of the light. He can’t really resist, or push him back, or refuse to accept the vaccine, and even though he feels like he should, he's too tired to _want_ to. He’s not sure what his punishment would be to force the vaccine away but he doesn’t want to think about it.

Jack takes a few steps forward so he’s right up close, hand poised over Harry’s arm, waiting to puncture the skin. That fear squeezes tighter. “Take a deep breath in,” Jack says gently, at the look on Harry's face, and Harry bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood and inhales shakily. It’s only a second before he feels the pressure of something entering the numb lump he's pretty sure is still his arm, and another moment before an almost pleasant kind of coolness spreads underneath where he felt the needle go in.

“One down, four to go." Jack tosses the used needle into a trash can. “You might feel a little ill after this one; a lot of people say they get a metallic taste in their mouths.” In the same place, another needle enters, and it makes him a little nauseous because this one is _warm_ , seeping into his veins like dripping oil, and a sore ache forms deep in the muscle of his bicep, and the taste of bile floats round his mouth and the lights swim right before his eyes.

“What’s that one?” Harry asks weakly when Jack approaches him with syringe full of bright blue liquid.

“Rabies.”

“I don’t have rabies.”

“Well we don’t want you getting it either, trust me.” It makes him a little dizzy, the third needle; when he feels the fourth, he has to blink a few times to reduce the pounding in his head, and by the fifth, his mouth floods with saliva and he doesn’t even try to swallow it back down.

“I’m gonna be sick,” Harry croaks, strangled and tight, and Jack shoves a bag under his chin without saying a word, wincing in sympathy as Harry wretches.

There’s not much in his stomach to come up. He dry heaves a couple times, spits out the gathering saliva in his mouth, and tries to even out his ridiculously fast breathing. A drop of sweat prickles at his temple and trickles down the side of his face. When he thinks he’s done, he leans back against the wall, squeezing the bag shut and pinching his own thigh hard. The pain grounds him a little more.

“Sorry,” Harry rasps, throat stinging. Jack shakes his head immediately, gently removing the bag from Harry's hand and tossing it into the trash too.

“Don’t worry about it. Most people have them when they’re kids, and over the course of several days. You’ve had all five in less than ten minutes. It’s okay. You did really well.”

Harry wipes his brow with the back of his hand, thoughts hazy and tongue clumsy and too large for his mouth. “I...uh, my grandfather. He died of cancer...I don’t know if it’s...passed down or…”

“Unfortunately we don’t have access to the cure,” Jack replies tentatively. “It’s hard to get. But it's not normally hereditary; of course, you’re more likely to develop it if you have a family history, but I don’t think you should worry, Harry."

And of course, as if Harry hadn't already embarrassed himself enough, he starts rambling, his tendency when he’s ill or feverish. He remembers one winter spent alone when he must’ve had pneumonia, his racing mind, paranoia and clammy palms. He hadn’t expected to make it out of the illness _alive_ when he'd started seeing things, shadows of his family and his friends and horses and cattle, supermarkets stocked with food and wells full of clean water.

“They gave me some shots, at camp, when I got there,” he continues, voice wavering and suddenly thirsty. “I don’t know what they were...I stopped getting sick and, I mean, I was shot in the chest. I didn’t die. Is that…” He looks up, meets Jack’s worried eyes. “Is that possible?”

Louis clears his throat, and Harry's almost forgotten he's been standing there this whole time, watching everything with his beady blue eyes and judgmental glare. “Niall had it too, didn’t he.”

It’s not a question, but Harry can tell Louis already knows what his answer will be.

“Yeah. When he got to camp I had already been there for a year,” he says thickly. “I didn’t know what it meant...they put it right into the bottom of my spine. Held me down. I don’t know.”

He counts three, four, five, six lights above his head. At some point, the sixth disappears, and then reappears, and then there are seven, and then there are only three, which is what he remembers counting when he first walked in.

“I think you should lie down,” Jack suggests kindly but firmly. “Try and rest. You've been through a lot.”

Harry shifts so he’s lying on his back against the hard surface of the clinic cot. There’s a fly on the wall; it crawls a little closer and doesn’t move, and Harry doesn't know if he's imagining it or not.

He stares up at the ceiling and tries not to think about needles in his back. Then he’s dreaming it all over again.

 

*

 

_“Your name,” the dark figure said. They were face to face, standing too close, smell of manure and waste clogging their senses. “It’s Harry?”_

_Harry nodded. “My…” His voice was so hoarse, so scratchy from the screaming. “My sister might be dead.” He didn’t know why he'd said it. It just felt like it had to be said._

_The boy looked him over. His eyes were careful and smooth and mysterious, holding something deep inside--something bad had happened to the boy. Something very bad._

_“Mine too,” the boy said simply. “I’m Z. You said you wanted to be called H.” It wasn’t a question. He said it like a straight fact._

_“Yeah,” Harry replied. “It’s easier.”_

_“I understand,” Z told him._

_Somehow, Harry felt he was telling the truth._

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry tries to break louis, and louis fights back.

He wakes some hours later.

There’s a distant throbbing in his head, and it's considerably less present than it was when he fell asleep. He kind of wants to do that again. He’s painfully exhausted.

“How are you feeling?” It’s Louis, seated in a chair at the other end of the room, book in hand, and his voice startles Harry from his dazed stupor. Harry gets a mental image of his mother with a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose, flipping the pages of a novel, and suddenly he wants to laugh or cry, he’s not sure which.

“Ngh,” Harry grunts. 

“It’s alright. You’re missing dinner but I figured you wouldn't want to eat.”

 _Niall_ , he thinks, disgruntled. _Niall wanted me to do something._ He can’t quite remember exactly what it was.

“Thank you,” Harry says softly then, once he's regained himself.

“What for?” Louis sounds a bit taken aback.

“For staying.”

“Well I can’t leave you here unattended, can I? Can’t have you running off or something.” Louis pauses before speaking again. “Besides. You’re ill. It’d be insensitive to leave you here alone anyway and I’m not completely heartless, despite what you may think.”

“I don’t think you’re heartless.”

This throws Louis off track, and he doesn’t say anything for a moment, putting his book down.

“You don’t know me.”

“I’ve known people like you.”

“Who?” Louis asks harshly. “Those camp privates? Those government workers? Those survivors you’re so committed to protecting?”

Harry pushes himself into a sitting position, head spinning as he does so. “You don’t need to patronize me. I’m not much younger than you.”

“I’m not _patronizing_ you,” Louis sighs in exasperation. “And don’t even know how old I am. You don't know _anything_ about me.”

“Twenty five?” Harry tries. Louis glares at him, expression stormy and fierce. “Twenty six?” Louis breaks the expression for a split second, eye twitching ever so slightly, but it’s enough for Harry to know everything he needs.

“I know a lot more than you think I do,” Harry says, feeling a little smug. “Like how your full name is Louis William Tomlinson.” Louis’ eyebrows shoot up incredulously.

“How did you--”

“I listen well. I know you’re twenty six years old. You’re from somewhere near Sheffield; from the sounds of it, very near, and you lived there for a long time. You say you hate me and then try to protect me.” Harry tilts his head, blinking. “Why?”

“I don’t try to protect you,” Louis retorts, but his expression wavers, surprised at the confrontation. “You don’t need protecting.”

“Why did you tell me to be careful then?”

Louis shakes his head in bewilderment. His glasses lay at an odd angle on his face, as if he’s been leaning on them.

“You’re valuable.” He transforms his face into something stricter, the usual look he sports; Harry feels like he’s being scolded by a schoolteacher, and he juts his chin out a bit at Louis' tone that is, in fact,  _extremely_ patronizing, despite his defense. “You’re dangerous. Nothing like Niall.”

“What makes me dangerous?”

Louis’ blue eyes bore deeper and deeper into his skull, penetrating somewhere far inside the hidden depths of his brain. When Harry was younger, he had a fear that adults could secretly read minds--that they developed special powers as they grew and Harry always figured that's how his parents knew him so very well. He’d always bite his tongue whenever a curse would threaten to fall from his lips, shove it away with childish paranoia. That’s what this feels like.

“Everything,” Louis tells him. “Everything about you is dangerous.”

Harry doesn’t try and analyze what this means. Not now.

There’s a soft knock on the door, and Jack walks in, smiling brightly when he sees Harry sitting upright. “Good to see you’re awake. How are you feeling, Harry?”

“I’m fine,” he replies, voice still unsure at Louis' words. “Niall wants me to go to...to a music thing. Tonight.”

“Oh, of course. It’s Friday, so there’s a big gathering of people, some off from duties until Monday. There’ll be food and drinks and it’s always good fun. That is…” He sends a glance at where Louis’ still fuming. “If Lou thinks it’s a good idea.”

There’s a minute when Harry’s not sure if Louis will actually permit it, purely out of anger.

But, “Fine,” Louis says through gritted teeth. “I have work to do, so someone’s going to have to accompany him.”

“I’m sure Niall would be happy to,” Jack says cheerfully. He doesn’t seem to notice the thick tension between the two of them, or if he does, he stays quiet. “I’ll see you there, Harry. You’re free to go. Make sure you eat something and get a good night’s sleep. The side effects of the vaccines will wear off by tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Harry accepts tiredly.

“Don’t mention it. Off you go. Don’t want to see you back here again for another while, please.”

“I hope so,” he says, managing a weak and unsmiling laugh that sounds more like an exerted huff of breath, and they leave.

 

*

 

It’s crowded and loud in the halls, people laughing and clumsily sloshing styrofoam cups together. Harry can hear music somewhere. It’s been _years_ since he’s heard music. And there are so many _people._

They find Niall lingering around the threshold when the music reaches their ears loud and blunt. He appears to have consumed a hefty amount of alcohol, enough to flush his cheeks and lighten his mood considerably. Harry has no desire to drink, and has never had one. He's never liked the taste of liquor, anyway, and even if he did manage to get a hold of some, intoxication is not a great survival tactic.

“H! You came!” Niall exclaims, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and squeezing tightly in a too-warm, too-stiff embrace. “And Lou! You came as well!”

“You need to watch out for him,” Louis remarks in repulsed annoyance, eyeing the hordes of people with their cups with a grim look, as they all laugh and laugh and laugh some more. “I have work to do.”

“Aww, come on mate,” Niall whines. “You never party with us. Always working. He’s a workaholic." Niall turns his attention to Harry, sticking his thumb in Louis' direction as if he isn't standing right there. “Never takes a damn break. Come in, come in. There’s food. I didn’t see ya at dinner, H, where were you?”

“Infirmary,” he answers, a little distressed while trying to avoid the mounds of bodies crashing into one another.

“Ah,” Niall says, and doesn’t press further, to Harry's relief. “Here.” He shoves a napkin into Harry’s hand, gathering a wide array of biscuits and cookies and stacking them up atop the napkin until Harry has no room left to balance anything in his open palm. 

It’s so _like_ Niall. It just _embodies_ him. It’s how he was at camp once he'd warmed up to people; he was scared, at first--of course he was--but he made himself comfortable in Harry's and Z’s and Ed’s little group, and fairly soon he was just one of the boys. There was no doubt he'd had a rough childhood but he seemed to always be looking in a positive direction and it was that little something odd about him that Harry was drawn to. Niall was the breath of fresh air they’d all needed in a winter filled with dark horrors.

“Thanks,” Harry says, corner of his mouth quirking up as a cookie crumbles in the pile and tumbles to the floor. He feels the prickle on his neck of eyes watching him, but doesn’t bother to turn around, too busied with the way Niall’s guiding him towards the front, where the loud music is coming from.

There’s a piano, and two men sat on stools cradling guitars in their laps. They’re strumming away and drawling out some folksy song, words Harry doesn’t understand--something about love, the words ‘darling’ and 'baby' weaved into every line. The piano, keys sleek and inviting, is vacant.

“Do you play?” Niall nudges Harry's side when he notices him looking.   
  
“I did,” he says softly, voice nearly disappearing under the abundance of sound stifling it. “Years ago.”

“You should pick it up again. There's plenty of time to, anyway. You don’t have to worry about people discovering you. Seriously, when I got here, I would shut myself in this exact room with a guitar and just be alone. It’s therapy. Better than the shrinks they hire to get you to open up.” The two jostle together again. “By the way, if anyone asks if you wanna talk and open up about your feelings, don’t accept. They don’t do a bit of good and just want to see you start crying.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

The musicians start up a new song, one that everybody seems to know, and people begin clapping; some clutch hands with each other and twirl around in a dance, boys and girls, men and women. Harry gets an ache in his chest.

“I think I should go,” he says.

Niall’s face falls. “Are you sure? You just got here.”

“I...it’s a lot to process, and…”

“Right.” Niall nods quickly, forehead creased in concern, and puts a hand on the small of Harry’s back, guiding him and his napkin full of cookies back to the exit. “I’ll take you back to the cabin. I should probably sleep too. Got work tomorrow.”

“I thought--” he begins, but stumbles, something caught on his shoelace. They’re almost at the door, music fading behind him, but he glances down anyway, and the breath is stolen from his lungs.

The girl is small, only reaching his knee in height; skinny and slight, fragile framed. Harry's heart jerks in his chest, and the first and only thought that comes to mind is that he could have hurt her.

He’s not sure what to do, the way the little girl is staring up at him with her odd wide eyes. Her shiny black hair is pulled up into two pigtails, loose flyaways clinging to her pink cheeks. Slanted, dark brown eyes. She tugs on his sleeve, and he stands there, frozen, Niall waiting expectantly for him to follow towards the exit.

She tugs again, little hands pulling tightly on the fabric of his shirt, and he glances around once, stunned, before getting down into a crouch.

“You’re new,” she tells him bluntly. The corners of her mouth are stained with chocolate and she has crumbs down the front of her pink t-shirt.

There’s enough of a break in the crowd which lets Niall stand there and watch them; he’s waiting to leave, expectant. Harry doesn’t have it in him to move.

“I am,” he says gently. As the girl continues to stare, he stares right back, both as dumbfounded as the other.

“What’s your name?” The girl blinks innocently, hands fumbling with a fold in her skirt. She’s wearing little black shoes, soles worn and scuffed.

“Harry,” he replies. His heart's pounding relentlessly in his chest.

“My name is May,” she says, holding out her left hand to shake before glancing at it and realizing her mistake, switching hands instantly. “Nice to meet you, Harry.”

“Nice to meet you, May,” he answers, shaking her tiny hand in his own. He feels a little self-conscious.

“Did you come from the outside?” she asks curiously, rubbing her eye. A little frosting from her hand smears underneath her eyebrow.

“Yes,” he murmurs.

“Niall says there are monsters in the outside. It’s why we aren’t allowed up there.” She nods at Harry matter-of-factly and he parts his lips, amused.

“Niall is right. There are monsters.”

Her eyes widen further, and she grins at him in delight, exposing a big gap where her front teeth are missing. “Really? Did you have to fight them? When you were in the outside?”

“Yes,” he tells her. “I've fought lots of monsters.”

“Did you get cut?” she asks, poking the scar above his eyebrow. “You know, by the monsters. Do they have clars?”

“Clars?”

“Don’t be silly, Harry,” she giggles. “Sharp clars. They scratch you. Like nails.”

“Claws,” he echoes. “Yes. They have very sharp claws. And big teeth. You’re lucky to live down here where it’s safe.”

“I want to go into the outside and fight the monsters though,” she explains confidently. “Niall told me that when I’m big I can start my training and I can go to the outside and fight. Like Leigh.”

“Who’s Leigh?” he asks hollowly, heart breaking.

May points somewhere over his shoulder at a young woman laughing amongst the crowd, cup in hand, curly hair framing her head like a halo and dark skin and big smile. He recognizes her as one of the people from the group before, when he tried to run away.

“She fights with guns,” May continues. “One time she showed me hers. Do you have a gun, Harry? Can you show me it?”

“I don’t have a gun,” he says. “I used to, a very, very, very long time ago.” She giggles again, poking him in the cheek, right where his dimple sits. She can’t be older than four but sounds far older from the way she speaks.

“Silly, you _have_ to have a gun to go to the outside. It’s dangerous out there without protection.” Her words are recited from memory, and he knows she overheard it somewhere, and that should make him feel better about all this but it only sends a wave of cold sadness spreading across his chest and lungs.

“How old are you, May?” he asks. She holds up five fingers. “Five? Tell you what. When you’re six, I’ll tell you all about the outside. But you have to wait. Can you do that for me?”

“My birthday is in four months,” she says firmly. “I can wait, I promise. Promise you’ll tell me about the outside?”

“I promise.”

“Pinky swear it.”

Niall’s wandered off somewhere, leaving him and May behind. The music continues somewhere behind him, distant now, even though he's not that much farther away. This little girl seems to take up the whole world and leave nothing in her wake.

He holds out his little finger, joining it with the child’s miniature one. “I pinky swear,” she begins, “That I will wait until I’m six for you to tell me about the outside. Now you have to pinky swear too.”

“I pinky swear that I will tell you about the outside in four months,” he replies. She smiles, satisfied. “I need to go. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. It was nice to meet you Harry. Don’t be a stranger.” She says it so seriously, so businesslike, he almost laughs, and he hasn’t laughed or wanted to in what’s felt like years.

“It was nice to meet you, May.” Out of the corner of his eye, when he stands up, he thinks he sees the shadow of Louis watching him, the burn of staring eyes hot on his face, but when he blinks, the shadow is gone.

So is May, and he wonders, maybe, if he imagined it all.

 

*

 

Harry doesn’t leave the party until Niall comes stumbling back up to him, another couple of drinks downed and a new wobble in his step.

“There you are, mate! Looked everywhere for ya!” Harry doesn’t point out the blatanty of Niall’s lie. “Ready to hit the sack, eh?”

“Sounds good,” Harry says. Appetite long gone, he looks down at the napkin in his hand; a chocolate chip cookie, a sugar cookie, a biscuit shaped like what must be an animal but is too deformed to tell what kind. 

“Saw you talking to May,” Niall chats as they step out into the hallway. He nearly stumbles right into the wall before catching himself. “Good kid. Crazy fuckin’ smart, I tell ya. Some kinda mini Einstein.” They’re both quiet as they get closer to the residential area, people milling about and yawning with the late hour. “Her dad...heard he was a good man. Shame they lost him. Her mum, well, apparently went a little off after he died. Wasn’t right in the head. Took her own life a few years ago...anyways.”

Harry thinks of May’s dark eyes, staring up at him in wonder. Her wispy black hair and her missing front teeth.

She doesn’t deserve this. She doesn’t deserve to be here, in this world.

The three others are already in bed when they walk in, and Harry's only judging from his own exhaustion what time it must be. His sleeping pattern's fucked from the sudden change in routine. Liam rolls over at the sound of them entering, leaning up on his forearms and stretching.

“There you are,” he greets, shooting Harry a sleepy but friendly smile. “Get to bed, lads. G’night.”

“Goodnight,” Niall answers loudly, stripping off his shirt and reaching for a different one at the foot of his bed. The dim lighting of the room casts a shadow over his back, but when Niall steps into the illumination of the ceiling lamp, Harry catches sight of the scars littering his back and shoulders, the patches of skin at the base of his spine that never fully healed from the chemical injections, the marks from the lashings.

He’d only been seventeen when he’d gotten half of these. Harry remembers the origins of most of them, almost as well as he remembers the origins of his own scars.

“You good, H?” Niall asks him dopily. He’s half asleep already and clambering into bed without waiting for a reply. “Lemme know if ya need anything. Wake me up, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry thanks, but the man’s already asleep, and in this room of four sleeping bodies, Harry has never felt so alone.

He waits a moment before taking off his own shirt, still crisp from the one time wear, and doesn’t linger for a second before switching it out for a different one. He doesn’t know where his sweatpants have gotten to; he opens up a couple drawers and finds only jeans and hoodies. He decides not to change. It’s dangerous to sleep indecent and he knows that very well by now.

Harry kicks off his shoes and sits on the bottom bunk. It’s so quiet and yet so loud, bodies tossing and turning and breathing and stirring, a contrast with the tranquility and solitude of being aboveground he's used to, with only the falling snow and the stars above to keep him company. He rolls onto his side to stare at the wall, pulling a blanket over his body. After a bit, he stops trying to push himself into sleep and decides to address his mental list.

He starts with the exchange earlier on. The discomfort when Harry had asked about fighting, about his purpose at the base. Niall’s reply of " _it’s complicated_ ". It could mean anything, really. They evidently don’t feel comfortable with him fighting yet, but that can’t rule out fighting _forever_. If they want his help they’re going to have to let him in. He concludes that he doesn’t know enough to be able to resolve what ‘complicated’ means, so he checks it off mentally and moves on.

While he’s trying to wrack his brains for the other thing on the list, that thing he knows he's forgotten already with the piles of information shoved in in the past few days, his mind somehow drifts to Gemma, which he doesn’t let himself do often. He’s told himself for years that she’s long dead and that he’ll never see her again, and he’s never doubted it...until now. Now there’s a way for her to be tracked down--it can’t really matter if it’s unethical or immoral by the old standards, right? She’d forgive him for any kind of invasion, if they ever ended up together. He blocks everything out after the pain becomes too great to bear and goes once more through the list he’s compiled.

Louis. Louis is on the list.

He thinks back at what Niall told him about Louis’ troubled past, and pictures Louis' face in his head--his sharp features, the scruff at his jawline, the clear, fiery blue eyes burning with the kind of passion that seems foreign to Harry. That’s the first layer. Harry’s broken through that, now, because when he’d looked at Louis in the infirmary, told him what he knew...he might’ve seen a trace of the same haunting he’d seen in Z’s eyes when they’d met. The soul of a truly broken person, damaged beyond repair.

He wonders if anyone sees that when they look in his own eyes, or if he just has a knack for this kind of thing.

Harry tries to move on and think of other things. The way May looked at him, those pure, innocent eyes. The way Niall, drunk and dopey, seemed positively radiant for the first time in a while. The way the music had washed over him, raw and loud. But when he falls asleep, the only thing he can see are haunted hazel eyes reflected in fiery blue ones.

  



	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the first attack.

There’s a knife at Harry's throat.

He knows already not to start, or lurch forward, but the dark is suffocating, and the figure above him is a mere faceless shadow. The knife is sharp and cold and it stings against the fragile skin of his neck.

“Don’t move.”

It’s too muffled, too quiet to make out whose voice it actually is, but Harry still thinks the request is a bit silly. Move where?

“You’re going to get up,” instructs the voice in a harsh whisper. “Slowly. And you’re going to follow me. And if you make a sound I’m going to slit your throat. Nod if you understand.”

Harry nods once, carefully. The voice is familiar--he's certain he's heard it before--all it will take is a few more uttered words, and Harry will probably be able to figure out who it is. “Good. Stand up.” He kicks the covers away, never more grateful he chose to wear trousers to bed, and moves into a sitting position, sliding his legs off the mattress until his feet hit the floor.

“Walk with me.” Eyesight still hazy with lingering sleep, Harry blinks and waits for his vision to focus, feet dragging along cautiously as if he's afraid he might step on a nail. The person is a couple inches shorter than him, dressed in baggy, dark clothing, and their face is covered by a knit ski mask. They mirror his every movement, front pressed to Harry's back, keeping the blade firm at his throat, and nudge him forward and out into the hallway with little consideration for how fast he can walk.

The lights outside the door of his cabin are bright and hurt his eyes, but he doesn’t dare turn his head to look at the figure behind him, to look back and see Niall, asleep. He thinks he can get out of this tight hold; he's certainly done it before.

It takes not even a minute for Harry to realize his disarmament plan isn't going to work. The person behind him is trained for this kind of thing, it seems. There’s an arm looped around Harry’s shoulder so he can’t escape the hold, and the knife presses in hard enough that if he turns his head it’ll slice his skin open. Strategic.

It's the exact method Harry and Niall were taught to capture British soldiers.  

As they walk, the knife doesn't shift its position by even a millimeter. It's long and agonizing, Harry's back twinging with the odd angle, and a couple times he almost trips, fear jolting through him until he manages to right himself.

He’s finally shoved through a door off to the side, and abruptly, the knife is removed, the arm taken away from around his shoulder, and just as he's straightening up to analyze his whereabouts, a boot kicks him _hard,_ square in the back, sending him crashing to the floor. He catches himself with his bad wrist, and a searing trail of pain goes shooting up his whole arm, settling high in his collarbone. 

“You actually did it?” he hears, a new voice, and the door closes while he rolls over onto his back and takes in a shuddering breath from having the air knocked out of his weak lungs.

There are three other men around him, all in similar clothing and masks. He’s outnumbered, and not sure he can take all of them; they’re healthy and fit and muscular, years of endurance built up, and while he's wearing a fair amount of muscle from wandering, he looks a frail, malnourished survivor. He is, mostly. 

The first person, his capturer, lifts his mask off, and Harry blinks.

It’s Tom. Tom his new squadmate. Tom he shares a bedroom with.

“Sorry it had to come to this, Harry,” Tom says flatly, ignoring the plain white shock on Harry’s face. “But you killed one of our men. And we can’t forgive that.” He holds out his hand, and one of his lackeys withdraws a pistol from their belt and gives it over.

“Tomorrow, somebody is going to come in and find you and think that you’ve offed yourself. You’ll be remembered as a coward, which is exactly what you are.” Tom sneers down at him. “You murdered someone, Harry. You killed our friend. You’re a _coward._ ”

_“You fucking coward!” Z shouted, hit after hit after hit thundering in his chest. “I can’t believe you’d let this happen! He could’ve died!”_

“You don’t know shit about me,” Harry spits.

The barrel of the gun lowers to his eye level. He’s at probably the worst angle he can be, on the floor, leant up on his forearms, pistol right in his face. Nobody is coming to save him. _This is it_ , he thinks. _I'm going to die_. He’s going to be killed by a twenty-something year old Rebel soldier who’s angry and vengeful over the dead friend Harry didn't even know existed.

Harry doesn’t even try and speak or defend himself. He waits and waits and waits and the seconds tick by with Tom’s finger poised over the trigger, and in a spur of courage, when he feels the silence has dragged on for long enough, and because he doesn't want to die like this, he pushes off the floor and kicks the man’s legs out from under him. Tom falls and the gun clatters to the floor.

A heavy body collides with Harry before he can get to his feet; the jarring impact forces him back into the wall, and he’s not particularly strong at the moment, but one received punch to the face causes a boost of rage to surge up, all fiery and hot inside him, and he pushes the man away with all his strength, kicking hard against his stomach, and he stumbles backwards into his colleague. Harry uses the extra time to charge towards the door, ruling himself unfit to attempt to take all of them on. Before he can latch his fingers around the handle, a hand grabs his face, whipping him around in a movement so quick he gets whiplash and hears his own neck crack, a fingernail scraping down his forehead and leaving a sharp sting in its wake, and throwing him to the ground.

Harry scrambles along the cement floor for some way to protect himself as Tom straddles him, wraps thin fingers around his neck, the gun vanished somewhere. Harry clumsily hits Tom in the head with his palm, stunning him for long enough to reach an arm out and grapple for the pistol.

There’s a hollow click from above him. One second, Tom is standing there, finger having just squeezed the trigger of the apparently unloaded gun, and the next, Tom is on the ground, tackled by a small person in grey Harry can’t quite make out.

Harry heaves a gasping breath and cowers back against the wall, clutching at his face, all the others temporarily distracted; the person throws two hard punches before he has the next one against the wall, pulled forward and then slammed back. Their eyes flutter and they fall to the floor. The third one, tackled and beaten; the fourth one, struggling to escape before the gun on the ground is slammed into his temple, right into the soft spot of his skull. It’ll be undoubtedly fatal.

There’s blood on Harry’s face when the person turns, and he wonders if maybe the fingernail was actually a knife.

“Louis?” he coughs out, and Louis just shakes his head, takes the few steps to where Harry’s on the floor and crouches down in front of him. Harry blinks at him, dazed.

“Jesus,” Louis says. “Don’t talk. Can you walk?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, c’mere.” Louis offers his hand and pulls Harry painstakingly to his feet. The lights swim in Harry's vision. He's getting more and more sure the fingernail was not actually a fingernail. “Be quiet.” Louis wraps his fingers around Harry’s bicep and takes a careful step over the body lying in the doorway. Harry trips, almost falls.

“How did you--”

“Don’t _fucking_ talk, Harry, you hear me?” Louis turns his head in every direction, as if to make sure they’re not being followed, and tugs him down the hallway, moving at a pace far too quick for him to keep up with.

Now, the pain begins to catch up with him, much like he’s used to after a fight, the familiar tug of exhaustion drawing his consciousness away from him, but Louis’ hand is warm and calloused against his skin...and it feels like a strange comfort. He realizes after a second it’s what Z used to do, and then just feels kind of sad. 

Harry trips again. Louis rights him, continues pulling him down the hallway.

“Louis,” he starts, but he’s silenced again, swerving to the left and guiding him through the door.

There’s a single bed, a dresser pushed against the wall. A loveseat across from it. A lamp, a bedside table. The covers are disheveled, and there’s a door off to the side, wide open, that leads to a little bathroom. There aren’t any sentimental objects on display; it’s so simplistic and void Harry fears, for a moment, that they’ve entered the wrong room.

“Sit,” Louis demands, planting him at the foot of the bed and shutting the door tightly behind them. “Wait.” He stalks off to the bathroom, and Harry’s eyes drift down to Louis’ bruised and bleeding knuckles.

He hears the tap begin to run as he shuts his eyes. The mattress is soft, the covers warm and inviting. He kind of wants to lie down and sleep, but his head is bleeding, a lot, so much that it might need stitches. Fuck. What even happened? He’s still not entirely sure.

Harry takes a deep breath, steeling himself to finally speak. “I didn’t--”

“Be quiet,” Louis calls. “I don’t want to hear you talk.”

Vaguely, he wonders if he’s done something wrong.

Louis comes back out after a moment, and Harry’s still perched on the end of the bed, unmoving as he watches Louis’ careful, precise movements. It’s as if Louis’ trying not to make a sudden move, afraid to scare or startle him. Is Harry really that jumpy? Louis has what looks like a damp cloth in his hand, and a few droplets have gotten onto the plain white t-shirt he wears; the short sleeves expose several tattoos, elaborate designs and obscure drawings he doesn’t understand. For the first time, Harry realizes the man isn’t wearing his glasses. It softens his features, makes his eyes bluer, clearer, but not so intimidating.

“Hold still,” Louis says, pulling up a chair to sit in and touching the cloth to Harry’s head without so much as a preamble. It’s cold and stings, and Harry flinches away before he can stop himself. “It’s alright. Just water.” His touch is gentler now than it was, but it still has a purpose, wiping away the blood that's begun to dry and settle and leaving his skin cool and damp.

“He woke me up,” Harry whispers after a moment, considering it safe to talk. “There was a knife...he was angry at me. I didn’t know it was him. I don’t know…” His brain jumps immediately to the worst conclusion. “I don’t know if Niall’s okay. I don’t know if he killed someone or--”

Louis removes the cloth from his face, fixing him with a scolding, stern look. “Tom wouldn’t kill them unless he had reason, and I can guarantee you he didn’t. He had reason to kill you. Now shut up. Lemme see.” With one finger and a tenderness contrasting with his words, he guides Harry’s head to the side, a warm touch searing through the skin of Harry's cheek. “Not that bad. Few stitches.” He takes away his hand and stands up, walking back into the bathroom where Harry watches him toss the rag into the sink and open up a cabinet, withdrawing what looks to be a needle and sewing thread and a bottle of something he’s sure is peroxide.

He sits down again. Harry takes it as an invitation to start talking when Louis soaks a wad of cotton in peroxide and begins dabbing it along the wound. It burns harshly but it’s familiar, and Harry welcomes familiarity.

“How did you find us?”

“Heard a commotion,” Louis replies, pursing his lips in concentration. “Not easy to ignore those kinds of things around here.” He takes away the cotton and breaks the thread, slipping it through the eye of the needle with ease. “I would tell you this’ll hurt but I’m assuming you know that already."

“It’s okay,” Harry says, as a way of saying _I’m ready_ , and Louis leans in closer and makes the first puncture. The pain blossoms, extravagant and not any better than he remembers it being throughout his head, and he lets his eyes flutter shut as Louis works.

“I’m not any doctor,” Louis murmurs quietly, and Harry feels the thread _move_ through his skin and his eyes water. “So I'm sorry. About that. I would take you to Jack but he’s asleep. And I shouldn’t wake him, and I don't want to start shit tonight. We should wait until morning to report Tom, anyway. Ben’s grumpy when he’s tired. He'll be worse because he doesn't like you much, either.”

“It’s okay,” Harry repeats.

“Sorry about Tommy, too. Fuckin’ hell. He was a good kid. He won’t be fighting with us after this.”

Harry opens his eyes, turning his head ever so slightly to look at Louis, whose brows are furrowed. “You don’t need to tell anyone. I’m not gonna...sell him out. I’m not like that.”

“Never said you were. But he tried to kill a member of the Rebellion--which you are, by the way, in case you forgot--and we don’t let those kinds of people represent us.” He pauses in between sutures, letting him have a moment to catch his breath. “He’s a coward. Always was a bit timid, if I’m honest. Fuck.” He shakes his head. “I need a drink. Ready for the next?”

“Yeah,” Harry answers quietly. He doesn’t quite know how to act around this new side of the man.

“You need to be careful, goddammit,” Louis continues, starting the next suture. “You gotta sleep with one eye open. Can’t be vain.”

“I’m not vain.”

“Fuck, I know. Alright? I know.”

“I trust Niall,” Harry says honestly. “I’ve known him for a long time.”

“People change in a long time, Harry,” Louis tells him, not giving him a break in between the next puncture of the needle. “Look, I know you’ve been through shit. Niall’s been through shit. Liam and Nick can’t understand that kind of shit. So sure. Trust Niall. But you really can’t have friends here.” He makes one more stitch and breaks the thread easily with his fingernail. “You’ll learn. Soon enough.”

“That’s how you’ve done so well, yeah?”

Louis sighs, gets to his feet to dispose of the supplies and returns with a few bandages in silence.

“I’ve been with the Rebellion for a long time. I know my shit.”

“I’ve been travelling for a long time. You don’t think I know mine?”

The man unwraps the bandages, placing them one by one over the wound. Harry still has no idea what the cut looks like; he might as well be totally blind. Feels like it. The haziness in his vision and ringing in his ears still haven’t faded.

“Just...be careful,” Louis finishes. “I’m being serious. Watch your ass.”

“Okay,” Harry answers, and then adds, “Thank you. I...should go now.”

“I’m sorry but I can’t let you leave tonight.”

Harry's jaw tries to drop open but he closes it as fast as he can so he doesn’t look stupid. “What?”

“You’re safe in here. You can take the couch.” Louis picks up a pillow and a folded blanket from the bed and tosses them onto the loveseat.

“I--”

“It’s not up for debate. I’m telling you if you go back to your room some bad shit’s gonna happen. You’ll spend the night here. That's an order.”

Harry fishmouthes a little awkwardly, fumbling with his hands and glancing around the room as if it’ll help him say _actually, I don’t trust you or your ideals and I fear that if I turn my back on you something will happen, worse than what’s already happened tonight._

He pushes himself to his feet. “I…” He wants to say no. He really does. But the way Louis looks at him, tired, droopy eyelids, joggers and t-shirt, no weapon or fiery anger or intimidation, the weary look in his eyes...Harry tries _not_ to feel safe, but he’s so _exhausted_ , and the pain in his head is overwhelming all his senses. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Louis nods once, face reflecting something that looks like relief. “Get some sleep. Wake me if...if anything happens.”

“Thank you.” Harry sits down on the couch, adjusting the pillow. He still doesn’t have any shoes on, and sweeps his socks once across the floor as a reminder that the door is close enough for him to run if he needs to, before getting reluctantly onto his side and pulling the blanket over himself. He watches as Louis does the same, turns to face the wall away from him and reaches for the light switch.

“Don’t thank me, Styles.”

The light goes out.

 

*

 

His dreams are hazy and filled with faces.

He sees his sister in one of them; she’s braiding her hair in front of the bathroom mirror. She catches sight of him watching and smiles. He feels himself smile back. He likes smiling. His sister turns into Ed; he stares at Harry with those empty eyes and laughs and it sounds like he’s choking, and then Ed turns into Z, whose eyes are haunted and thoughtful, and Z turns into Louis, who glares at Harry until he jumps awake, startled.

The light’s on, and there’s rustling in the bathroom. He’s in Louis’ room. He can’t remember why until he turns his head and feels the throb of his wound touch the pillow, and everything comes back to him in a rush; being awoken with the knife at his throat, being dragged to a different room where Tom was most definitely prepared to kill him, being saved by Louis, being cared for by Louis, having his head stitched up by Louis, being given a place to sleep by Louis.

He shouldn’t have stayed here for so long.

He sits up slowly, hand drifting up to gingerly touch the bandage on his face. It feels wet, and when he takes his hand away his fingertips are pink with his own blood. His throat feels sore, raw, as if he’s been screaming.

The tap stops in the bathroom where it's been running, and Louis walks out. He’s wearing those black jeans he always wears but no shirt, exposing even more tattoos on his chest, and his hair is damp, freshly showered. He glances dismissively over at where Harry’s pushing the blanket off himself, reaching for that green shirt hung over the back of a chair.

“You’re up,” Louis observes. “How’s your head?”

“Felt better.” Harry tries swallowing, his tongue thick in his mouth.

“Right. You slept through the alarm, but they got a hold of Tom. He’s conscious now; they’ve questioned him but he's refusing to speak. They want you.”

“Why me?”

Louis pulls the shirt over his head, frowning at him. “Why do you think? You’re new and they’re worried you were the one who caused all that damage.”

“What am I supposed to say?”

“The truth. They’ll hook you up to a heart monitor. So tell them the truth.”

“What about Tom?”

Louis shakes his head, an air of exasperation about his movements. His hair falls over his face, and he rustles it as if it’s a habit, picking up the glasses on his bedside table and unfolding them.

“Tom should be the least of your concerns. He made his choice to attack you.” He puts the glasses on. “Go wash up. We’ll fetch your shoes and a change of clothes from your room on the way to questioning. There’s a spare toothbrush in the cabinet.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry about me. Now get to it. We’ve not much time.”

“Won’t you be in trouble? For roughing up a soldier?”

Louis straightens and glares at him, plainly and bluntly annoyed now. “I can fend for myself, thanks. You should be thinking about yourself. Go.”

Harry stands up a little ungracefully. “Thank you.”

Louis looks like he wants to say something, but doesn't; instead, he busies himself with making the bed and pulling his boots on as Harry steps into the small bathroom, shutting the door softly behind him.

“You should probably change your bandages as well,” Louis calls, and Harry catches sight of himself in the mirror for the first time. His eyes are bloodshot, he has the beginnings of fine stress-stubble along his chin, and the four messy bandages slapped over his forehead are nearly soaked through with blood. There’s the pinkish tint of a purple bruise forming on his cheek.

He doesn’t spare his reflection a second glance; he digs around until he finds the toothbrush, cleans up quickly, and peels away the bandages. The cut is jagged and the stitches are messy, skin held together by thin sewing thread. He puts the clean coverings on as quickly as possible, runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to rearrange it, and pinches his cheeks a bit to bring some color to his face. He takes a deep breath to collect himself.

When he walks out not three minutes later, Louis is waiting by the door and tapping his foot impatiently. 

“It’s already almost eight. Come on.”

Harry slips a little in his socks, walking in the hallway. It’s empty at the moment, but when they enter the wing of soldier’s cabins, people begin turning their heads to look at them, whispering and muttering things as if word has already spread of the attack. When he turns into his room, Niall and Liam are standing there, talking lowly.

“Jesus,” Niall bursts out in relief upon them entering. “We’ve been worried sick. What the fuck happened? H? What the fuck happened to your head?”

“Get your shoes on,” Louis tells Harry, and Harry sidles over to his bedside where his sneakers are overturned on the floor. “There was an attack,” Louis continues, addressing Niall and Liam, who gape openly at him. “Boss wants the two of you and Nick in for questioning as well.”

“What attack? What?” Liam stammers.

“It was Tom. We need to go. Come on. Where’s Nick?”

“Went to breakfast,” Niall replies breathlessly. “Fuck. You alright, H?” He turns at where Harry’s fumbling with his laces. “Your head is bleeding. Holy shit.”

“I’m okay,” Harry says.

“Holy shit,” Niall repeats, shaking his head over and over again as if that'll make all this go away.

“The three of you are to go to Ben’s office now,” Louis says. “No detours. I’ll go find Nick. Go.” When nobody moves, he raises his voice. “Now.”

Niall puts a hand on his shoulder as they leave the room, and all Harry can do is try to ignore the throbbing in his head that's slowly beginning to worsen.

  



	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's harry's fault.

“So,” Ben says.

There’s a tick of a clock on the wall. It's ten o’clock. Harry’s waited two full hours for his turn to be questioned, in turn watching Liam, then Nick, then Niall enter this little quiet room. Now it's his, and he doesn't think he's ever disliked Ben more than he has now.

The beep of his heart rate is constant and monotonous; it’s stayed the same this whole time, since they stuck the monitor to his chest and made him sit in the chair in front of Ben’s desk, where he still sits, politely and patiently. Ben only leans against the wall, arms folded in a silent and eerie contemplation.

“So,” Harry echoes.

“This won’t take long, Harry,” Ben says, “If you’d tell me the truth. All you have to do is tell me what happened last night, and I’ll let you go.”

Harry presses his lips into a tight line.

“Start at the beginning, please.”

The beginning.

_Tell the truth._

“I was woken up,” Harry starts slowly, watching Ben's face closely. “Someone had a knife, told me to get up and walk with them. Said they were going to kill me. I got out of bed. We went down the hallway, to the room where...where you found the bodies. Pushed me down onto the floor. The one with the knife took his mask off.” He pauses, not sure how far to go.

“Yes?” Ben presses.

“It was Tom. My bunkmate. He was angry at me.”

“Did he say why he was angry at you?”

“Because I killed his friend. Gerry.”

Ben nods. “You did. You still haven’t done your work to make up for it. I’ll have Louis take care of that. Then what?”

“Tom had a gun. Was gonna kill me. But...it wasn’t loaded.”

Ben’s eyes narrow. “How did you know?”

_Because Louis saved me and almost got killed for it._

“Because I heard it. The holster sounded empty. It bought me some time.” Listening intently to the beeping of the monitor which hasn't changed speed since he sat down, Harry leans back in his chair, pleased with his work.

Ben raises an eyebrow. “So you took down those four men by yourself?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I’ve fought more. Injured.”

The man stares at him for a moment. “Niall said when he woke up, you weren’t there, and you returned around eight with Louis. What were you two doing?” The way he says that...it sends a shiver down Harry’s spine.

“My head was messed up in the fight. Went to the bathrooms to clean myself up. Ran into Louis. He said he had medical supplies and sewed me up.”

“Why didn’t he take you to the infirmary?”

“Because.” His heart rate doesn't palpitate or change once. “I told him not to. I didn’t want to wake Jack...not at that time of night.” Ben peers down at him and it takes all of Harry's willpower to remain still.

“So you spent the night?”

“I...couldn’t walk back. Was too wobbly on my feet.”

He’s not sure if Ben will actually believe it or not, but it doesn’t seem entirely safe to tell him the truth. The absolute truth would either get him in trouble for lying or Louis in trouble if Ben believed him, and despite not liking Louis very much, Harry hates Ben a lot more. The only thing Ben’s done for him was putting him through those god awful tests. Louis' rescued him now, in a circumstance where he definitely didn't have to.

_Louis saved me._

The heart monitor beeps away, same amount of space between each little pulse. It's been a job well done.

“Alright,” Ben says after a long moment. “You’re free to go. You can send in Louis now. We have some things to discuss.”

It’s quicker than he’d anticipated, but Harry doesn’t say anything regarding his quick interrogation. It's only when he gets to his feet when he feels a little wobbly with the dizziness of a sudden realization. He remembers his dislocated wrist and his concussion, Louis entering his first cell here and reading from his journal, Louis popping his wrist back into place, Louis leading him to the showers where he promptly passed out. Louis stitching his head up and letting him stay. Louis. Louis...waiting outside when he steps out of Ben’s office, beside Niall, who’s biting his nails with his blue-eyed gaze zoned out on a point of the floor.

Harry doesn’t know what to think. 

“Already?” Louis asks, raising an eyebrow.

“He wants you in there.”

“Fine.” Louis waits a moment, as if he’s collecting himself, and takes a step towards the door. Harry grabs his arm right before he enters.

“According to the story,” Harry murmurs, mouth so close to Louis’ ear they're practically touching, “You weren’t at the scene last night. I found you on my way to the bathrooms, and I was bloodied up pretty bad. I didn’t wanna wake Jack so you patched me up. Good?”

Louis blinks.

“Good?” Harry repeats, more firmly this time. 

Louis looks him up and down, face somewhere between a scowl and a frown, and utters one word, so quietly he almost can’t hear it.

“Good.”

Harry lets go. 

 

*

 

Harry's lunch is bland and tasteless on his tongue, and he spends more time playing with it than actually eating.

The pain in his head has reduced; after Harry's questioning, Niall had taken him to the infirmary, where Jack, in a fit of annoyance as they hadn’t woken him up, had given Harry a numbing serum via injection and removed the messy stitches, re-suturing the wound himself and all while muttering under his breath.

“Hell,” Jack had said to himself, tugging on the floss holding his skin together, “Lou always wants to do everything himself. Hasn’t stitched up a wound in years. You’re lucky it’s not infected now.”

The dressing over the cut is clean gauze, not messy bandage stuck hastily over the stitches. He’s drawn a couple short stares just because that happens, but the cafeteria is relatively quiet with a calmly somber mood, as if everyone already knows what’s happened but has decided to move on.

Harry scrapes the fork against the bottom of his plate. He kind of wants to throw up.

“You’re supposed to be starting with training today,” Niall blurts out. He looks up slowly. Liam and Nick are sat at the other end of the table, eating in silence, both with blank, weary looks over their passive faces.

“Training?”

“Probably cancelled now. But Lou was gonna take you to the training center and you’d get to shoot and reacquaint yourself with some weapons.” Niall shoves a forkful of potatoes in his mouth. “Don’t think you’re cleared to do that anymore though, not with your head the way it is. Not to mention the entire base is a little against you at the moment. They think it’s your fault Tom’s in trouble.”

“Why?”

“Twisted rumors are always going around. According to a lot of them, you attacked Tom, and he cut you in self defense. Trust me, I know you wouldn’t do that.”

Harry's food is cold by now, an unappetizing grayish lump on his tray. He finally puts his fork down with a sigh. “Alright.”

“It’s just a fuckin’ mess, ya know? It wouldn’t have happened if they hadn’t sent that…” Niall trails off, shaking his head.   
“Sent what?”

“Never mind.”

“Niall? Sent what?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything, I’m sorry mate. Just...finish eating, yeah? The kids are all on lockdown so I’m off work. We can go back to the room. You should rest.”

Niall’s mind seems to be somewhere else and he doesn’t appear to notice the fact that Harry hasn’t touched the food on his plate. Harry swings his legs off the bench and gets to his feet to follow Niall, ignoring the burning sensation of lingering glares pasted to the back of his head.

“Done already?” Liam calls after them, and Niall just turns and shrugs a shoulder limply before walking towards the exit.

“Are you...okay?” Harry asks tentatively.

“I’m…” He sighs. “Yeah. I’m fine. Fuck, man, just...Tommy was such a good kid. Had a rough childhood; lost his parents early on, got here when he was like twelve. He and Gerry were best friends. I don’t wanna put that on you though, ya know? It wasn’t your fault. Not your fault they fuckin’ jumped you.” He shakes his head, trains his eyes on his feet. “But there are rules here, and attacking another soldier is breaking, like, the biggest one, and there’s no fucking way Ben’s gonna let him back on the squad. They’ll lock him up until his sentencing.”

“Sentencing?”

“Yeah. We’ll all need to be there. And either they let him back on and he’ll have to make up for trying to kill you, practically our most valued person right now, or they banish him, but I doubt they’ll do that. He knows too much.”

“Banish, like send him away?”

“Yeah. I’ve seen them do it a couple times before. They become scavengers. There’s this…” He catches himself, stuttering over the last couple of words. “Never mind,” he says again. “I’m talking too much.” They turn into their cabin.

“I need to know,” Harry replies, sitting down on the edge of his bunk. “I want to know.”

“You will soon. I promise.” Niall closes the door and collapses down next to him with a big exhale of pent up breath. “Just...you should know that I didn’t want them to take you in. Like, I wanted to see you so fucking bad but...sometimes it’s better to be on your own.”

“How’d you find this place?” Harry changes the subject quickly, tucking Niall’s words away to consider tonight.

“Well. About two years ago, I ran into these survivors. I was pretty roughed up; my knee was giving me shit, I hadn’t eaten properly in ages. It was just...it was bad. Didn’t think I was gonna make it. And they took me in, gave me some food. Told me they were trying to get to London, heard of a Rebel movement. Said they planned to take down the government. So, I did the same thing I’d done with those Cardiff people; stole some shit and made a run for it. I’d been...in Oxford or something. Can’t remember. And it took me a couple weeks but I got to London and...well, I didn’t find shit. Ghost town. So I holed up in the tube, and went down the tracks to see if I could find anything, and there was this sign by one of them little spooky side doors. ‘ _Enter for the Rebellion_ ’ or some shit. And I went in. And that’s how I got here.”

Niall flops back on the bed, splaying out his limbs. “I wouldn’t speak for the first few days. Scared out of my mind. They had no idea I was from a camp until a month later.”

“Do you…” Harry swallows, turning his head a little bit. “Do you ever miss it? Camp, I mean.”

Niall is silent for a moment.

“I miss certain things, I suppose. Do you?”

“You first.”

“Right. Well. I miss being with people who understood me. I miss the boys. Eddy. Z.” Harry feels a pang of sadness course through his insides. “I miss the simplicity. Having orders and just...doing them without having to think about right or wrong. Don’t miss having to kill people, though. Or being beaten, or scared all the fucking time. Your turn.”

“I…” Harry fingercombs through his hair absently. It’s tangled and a bit matted, sort of greasy. He should probably wash it. “I can’t decide if I miss it or not.”

“You don’t need to decide anything, mate. Just live.”

“Just live,” he echoes.

“Yeah. You know? Just...let things happen.”

_Just live._

Harry thinks he can try.

 

*

 

The rest of the day is quiet; they fall asleep at some point, and wake before dinner, and wash up. Niall shows him the selection of books they have. Liam and Nick stay up playing card games until they can’t keep their eyes open before they finally put themselves out of their misery and go to bed.

Tomorrow is uneventful until lunchtime, when Louis comes storming through the doors of the cafeteria, glasses perched sternly on his nose and eyes wary. He instantly  singles out the four of them at their table, eating in a stubborn, bored silence. When he reaches the table, he seems to make a blunt point of ignoring Harry's gaze.

“Tom’s sentencing is starting. I need all of you now. Quickly.”

Appetites gone abruptly, they pick up their trays in a big flurry of frantic commotion and toss their leftovers into the trash. Their paces quicken as they walk through the hallways, and somehow, suddenly, Harry doesn’t feel like such an outsider anymore. Not as he matches his steps with the four other soldiers who are all moving towards the same destination, the same thing on their minds.

_Just live._

“Why didn’t we get notified?” Nick asks.

“Because I was busy,” is the snarky reply Louis gives them. “Shut up. Listen closely. I don’t know what’s going to happen. But if they decide they need more information from you, tell them the truth. It’s unlikely they’ll do further questioning, but, no matter what his sentence it, don’t try and stop them or cause any kind of disruption.” He glances over his shoulder at Harry, but it’s over before Harry even really realizes it’s happened. “Lying would only hurt Tom and yourselves more.”

“They won’t banish him, will they?” The blood drains from Liam’s face. “They can’t do that. Not now.”

“Well. Ben can do what the fuck he wants, so. Just stay quiet.”

Stay quiet. It's never sounded so easy.

Harry recognizes the wing of the base they enter as the area where Ben’s office is located. They walk past his door--Harry gives it a dirty look just because he can--and turn left down another hallway, where the door at the end is armed by two guards. Louis nods in simple acknowledgement at them, and pushes open the door before Harry even has time to prepare himself.

There’s a small panel of people he’s never seen before but who he assumes to be the leadership board. The table at the front of the room seats four people, and right there, front and center, is Tom; face bruised from Louis' own fists, scowling, and hands shaking as if he can’t control them. Harry can tell just from where he stands, frozen still in the doorway.

“Thank you for coming,” Ben greets from somewhere off to the side. He feels Liam jump next to him. “If you’d all take a seat.” He gestures towards the row of seats behind his table as an invitation, and Louis goes first, leading the way for the four of them who all stand there, uselessly and anxiously glancing around like that'll help them or offer an explanation to them. The room is big and carpeted and the lights are bright, reflecting off all the clean and shiny plastic surfaces.

“We’re here for the sentencing of four people,” Ben announces once they're all seated. “Three names will be undisclosed out of respect to their families.” Families. It’s still a shock to think those exist in this world. “Tom Carney is found guilty as the advocator of the attempted murder and battery of Harry Styles.” He picks up a folded piece of paper on the table. They wait with bated breath.

Ben unfolds it slowly, peers down at the words printed there.

“Decided by simple majority, three out of the four persecutors have been labelled as accessories to violence and misconduct. They will face four months in confinement before being released.” The three at the table that aren’t Tom...Harry’s never seen them before. Their gazes drop, disappointed, and Harry tries not to feel guilty--he really, really tries, and he knows they aren't great people, but he's not a great person either, is he?

“Carney, for attempted murder, will not be facing confinement.”

The room erupts in whispers, and he glances around in confusion as Niall buries his face in his hands, Liam pales further, Nick shakes his head, speechless, and Louis’ hands clench into fists.

“Carney will face banishment from the Rebellion for two years until he is fit to return as a soldier. The sentencing has concluded. You’re all free to go.”

“Fuck,” he hears Niall whisper, but Harry's eyes stay on Tom, unmoving from the boy's face. He can’t be older than Harry is from the looks of it--Tom is watching him, not looking away as their stares connect. It’s not Harry’s fault. He didn’t want this. He never wanted this. The look on Tom’s face, empty eyes and still lips, breathing so slightly he looks like a statue...Harry doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep tonight.

Two years. Nobody survives two years scavenging who isn’t already a survivor to begin with. Tom's life is over.

“Come on,” Liam says to him softly, so softly Harry might start crying because his tone is so kind and that's really all Harry needs right now. Just some kindness. “Let’s go.”

He stands a bit clumsily, not taking his eyes off Tom, who just sits there, absolutely still. When Harry steps into the hall, he has to press his back against the wall and breathe until he feels like he has control again, muscles deflating until he just feels like an empty, lifeless lump of skin and muscle.

“It’s not your fault,” Niall tells him firmly as people begin filing out, the crowd threatening to suffocate him, swallow all of him whole.

_Sure_ , he thinks cynically. _It’s not my fault. Sure._

Harry knows it’s his fault. It just hurts less to pretend it isn’t.

 

*

 

Harry’s right.

He doesn’t sleep that night.

 

*

 

The next day is as follows:

He wakes up earlier than everyone. Showers using some kind of handmade oatmeal shampoo that leaves grains in his hair and makes his skin smell strange. Uses a wide-toothed comb he finds under the sink to get all the tangles out.

When he gets back to his room, everyone is out of bed and getting dressed. The mood is solemn. They're all afraid to speak. Niall gives him a gentle smile before putting his boots on. Harry wonders if he’ll ever upgrade from these goddamn sneakers.

Breakfast is unappetizing and bland, but he’s used to it by now. He gets some in his stomach so he survives the day and resists throwing it all up because he's not quite as self-destructive as everyone seems to think he is.

Niall takes him to the armory. Apparently, Niall hasn’t been cleared by Louis to do so, but they need a distraction if they’re going to make it through the morning without having a mental breakdown. The racks of guns lining the wall are endless and kind of comforting. Niall gives him a stack of unloaded rifles to clean. They sit in metal chairs across from each other and work in silence.

The work is slow enough that it’s lunchtime by the time they finish. Niall starts humming a song as they walk, and it sends a painful jolt through Harry’s insides because he recognizes it. They never sang much at camp, not with the patrols around, but every now and then he’d hear one of the soldiers murmuring the faint tunes of a hushed love song and it would catch on. Just as a testament to the people they used to be. He pictures Niall alone in that music room, guitar in hand, that same tune falling from the broken lips of a broken boy. Harry thinks maybe, just maybe, it might be the perfect thing right now.

Lunch is a sandwich. Harry stuffs it in his mouth and, without thinking, asks Niall to take him to the music room. Wordlessly, Niall finishes his food and agrees. The halls are eerily quiet.

“I’ll talk to Lou,” Niall says when they reach the room and Harry can see the instruments through the gap in the door. “Could do you some good to have some time alone. The room is soundproof, so be as loud as you want. Just...don’t escape or anything.” His tone is light, and it could be a joke if the words weren’t so threatening.

“Thank you,” Harry says, and means it.

Niall nods once, smiles softly, and disembarks down the hallway, leaving Harry to open the door and step into the empty room.

It looks a lot different than it did when it was full of people. It’s a big room, tall ceiling and bright lights that open it up, and of course, the piano towards the back, three guitars in their stands, a mini drum kit. It feels a little...adolescent for him, if he’s honest. As a young child, he always favored music over other things, but pursuing it was never an option. Now, he doesn’t really know what he wants, but he thinks it has something to do with the lulling feeling of cool piano keys under his weathered hands.

He’s alone. For the first time in too long. He remembers when the thought of being around people constantly was foreign and impossible. Now, to catch a moment by himself, it almost scares him, but it's good. He can breathe without eyes following his every breath. 

He sits himself down on the piano bench, just staring. He’s afraid to press on a key. Afraid to break the silence.

_“Harry! We have to go!”_

_“One more minute!” he yelled. He was thirteen, frantically pulling his things into the oversized backpack. The few clothes he had were already packed. His toothbrush, his travel sized shampoo. His books: two graphic novels, the first three_ Harry Potter _books. A sports magazine. The picture. A journal he’d half filled. The necklace he’d promised to his mum he would keep._

_“Now! I’m not kidding! The bus is gonna leave without us!”_

_“Okay!” he shouted, grabbing his coat and his bag and rushing towards the door, where his sister, a mere fifteen years old, was waiting for him, tapping her foot with her arms crossed._

_“Finally,” she said. “I’ve been waiting ten minutes. You’ll be lucky we’re not left behind.”_

They’d missed the bus that was supposed to take them to the next town over, where a shelter had just been put up for abandoned children. They’d slept hidden in the doorway of a church that wouldn’t take them in, breaking the federal curfew. Well, Harry'd slept, curled into a tiny ball underneath a handmade quilt. Gemma had stayed awake on watch all night, always the one to look after him.

He wishes she was here. For the first time in forever, he lets himself wish his sister was here to protect him. She would know what to do. What to say. What to think.

There’s wetness on his cheek. It falls onto his lip and the taste of saltwater barely grazes the tip of his tongue. It's been almost three years since he last cried properly, and it feels so, so good.

Harry doesn’t bother to wipe that tear away. Just lets it all happen. Stares at the piano keys as his vision swirls and blurs. The black blends with the white, and he’s not sure why or how but it feels easy to let go.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Niall brings up the topic at breakfast the next day. 

“So I talked to Lou, right?” He starts, mouth full. “Basically, you’re cleared to do a bunch of shit now. You don’t need someone with you at all times. You’ll start getting a regular schedule, starting tonight. Louis wants to meet this morning because your training’s gonna start today. Which means you’ll have access to weapons and everything, so play it cool, ya know? They haven’t really figured out a proper job for you yet but if you’re not training, you can tag along with me. Cleaning weapons, moderating the gym, etcetera. So you’ll probably train this morning, work this afternoon with me, get your schedule tonight. Sound good?” 

It’s a lot to process. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Good.” Access to weapons. Not that he’s planning on trying anything, but it’s been a long time since he’s felt the familiar cool of a knife handle in his fingers and despite the bad memories associated with fighting, he’s felt so unprotected this whole time. In a way, he’s glad he didn’t have a weapon when Tom attacked him because he probably would’ve killed the bastard on instinct. 

“You’re to meet him at the training center,” Niall says. His mouth quirks up into a kind smile. “You should probably, you know. Get to it.” 

Harry glances down at the uneaten corner of his sandwich and sticks it in his mouth. He’ll be unaccompanied. He doesn’t need anyone with him in the short walk to the next wing of the base, and he has permission and affirmation of this.

He could get used to this. 

“Alright,” he says, standing up. “I’ll...see you at lunch?” 

“Yep!” Niall grins. “Have fun.” 

Fun. He’s not quite sure he remembers what that is. 

In the halls, by himself, the feeling of freedom isn’t there, but the feeling of not being watched under prying eyes makes his muscles loose with relief. He’s fairly certain he knows the way around by now, but he has to think about every turn he makes and only knows exactly where he is when he hears the faint sounds of gunshots firing. When he reaches what he thinks to be the main entrance, he catches sight of Louis standing there, arms crossed and foot tapping away. 

He knows, now, why he finds it so familiar. It’s what his sister used to do. 

“Independent, are we?” Louis says by way of ‘hello’, checking his watch. “Glad you found it okay. Come on in.” 

“I didn’t…” He loses his train of thought when they walk in. There are only two others occupying the stalls meant for target practice, but other than that, it’s empty, and he has the entire thing at his disposal. It’s far less terrifying than training at camp, which consisted of press-ups in the mud and fist fights until their knuckles bled. 

“You can take your pick,” Louis tells him. “Shooting, boxing, we can go down to the gym. Just as long as you do something.” 

He looks around. He doesn’t much like the thought of Louis watching him punch a sandbag by himself, and he’s about to pick shooting when the door squeaks behind them and they both turn to see Liam entering. 

“Hi boys!” he exclaims, cheerful as always. “You needed me, Louis?” 

“If Harry wants to start with anything other than shooting, I figured you’d be happy to be his opponent,” Louis replies slyly. The smile disappears from Liam’s face. 

“That’s okay,” Harry says quickly. “I don’t need to do hand to hand today. Just...need to get back into things.” 

“No,” Liam answers reluctantly. “If you want to fight, I’m, uh, happy to help?” The end of his sentence is turned up in a question. Harry feels bad for him.

“I’ll start with shooting,” he says. “If that’s alright.” 

Louis gestures openly to the racks of rifles and pistols without saying anything. 

Harry takes a tentative step forward. He hasn’t touched a rifle since camp, hasn’t picked up a pistol since his first couple months alone. He runs his fingers over the sleek barrels, but it doesn’t feel right; the weapons are far too deadly for him to be this lax around them. He picks up a Beretta, tests the weight of it in his hand. It’s lighter than he remembers. 

“Ammunition is under the stalls,” Louis tells him. Harry forces himself to walk into one, reaching underneath until his fingers touch the box of loaded magazines. He presses it into the holster carefully, keeping his movements slow and calm so they don’t think he’s trying anything. 

“Goggles to your left,” Liam calls. Harry looks down and grabs the eyepieces, pulls them up over his head. The rubber strap pulls at his hair. He doesn’t think he needs it and considers these all a waste of resources. If someone was injured by a ricocheted bullet at camp, it was over for them. Not that he’s saying that’s right, because it isn’t, but knowing that people live in such safety while he’s been terrified for his life for the past four years isn’t so comforting. 

His stance probably isn’t great from lack of practice, and his arm’s a little shaky as his wrist still hasn’t recovered fully, but it doesn’t feel like such a stretch to use a gun anymore. The targets are still, about twenty yards away, and he cocks the pistol. The click sounds through the silence. 

_ “Take a breath before you shoot, H.”  _

He empties the round into the target without thinking. It feels like a release. 

“Bloody hell,” Liam mutters. He’s hit each one about dead-on the bullseye. He breathes. It feels good. 

Harry reaches for another magazine after a questioning look back at Louis, who waits a moment before nodding. Loads it. Pulls the trigger. He feels like he’s being wasteful of ammunition, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Not to Louis, not to Liam. Not to him, really. 

A couple bullets land outside the center, but he hits nearly the same place every time, a charred hole in the piece of plywood from the constant attack. He takes off the goggles and pops the clip out, wiping the bit of sweat that’s collected over his upper lip away with the back of his hand. 

“You might need a harder target,” Liam says, a little breathless. “Can you aim like that with knives as well?” 

“I…” He pauses. “I can throw knives. Haven’t done it in a while.” 

“Help yourself,” Louis says, voice sounding strange, “We have knives if you want.” 

“Um. I...” 

“Hand to hand with Liam. There’s the gym, as well.” 

“What’s the purpose of this?”

Louis falls silent. The people they’d been sharing the area with have all gone, so it’s just the three of them. 

“I’m under orders,” Louis says finally. 

“That doesn’t explain why you’ve taken me here for training.” 

“Doesn’t explain why I’m entitled to give you an answer.” 

“I have a right to know.” 

“You have a right to use the training facilities under supervision.” 

Liam glances anxiously in between the two of them. He looks like he’d vomit if Harry even took a step towards him in a hand to hand.

“Okay. Then I’d like to go to the gym. Alone.” 

The two men stand there, looking stunned, as he puts the Beretta back in its place and pushes past them and through the exit. There’s a kind of unfulfilled rage spreading through him and he feels about ready to punch through a wall if he doesn’t get out now. 

It takes a moment to analyze why. At first thought, it feels the same way it did when he went on a mission, or when a patrol kicked him into the dirt because they were feeling annoyed, or when one of his squadmates made a snarky remark and got them all in trouble. Now, fast-walking towards the stairwell that leads deeper into the base, he tries to catch his breath, and understands where the rage comes from. 

The burn from the gun stays in his hands even though he put it down several minutes ago. It’s the first time he’s felt the burn in years and he feels like if he closed his eyes, he’d be back at camp. 

So he doesn’t close his eyes. 

The gym is empty, silent. He sees himself in the mirror and nearly jumps. His eyebrows are furrowed and he just now notices he’s been scowling for nearly the whole day; he relaxes his face, takes another deep breath. 

He’s going to get himself killed at this rate. He’s going to piss off Louis or Ben and nothing’s going be able to stop them from killing him. 

His eyes fall on a treadmill. Running. That’s supposed to be a good way to let off steam, right? He gets on, setting it to the medium speed and barely breaking a sweat as he begins. It’s more of a distraction from himself than anything else; running is robotic, monotonous, and it doesn’t require thinking. Thinking is the thing he’s been trying to avoid for as long as he can remember. Not thinking during the coup, not thinking while he and Gem were on the run, not thinking after he was taken to camp, not thinking as he killed people and injured people to save himself. Not thinking as he spent all those years alone. 

Of course, it’s easier said than done. But it feels right, the ache in his heels (these stupid fucking sneakers) and the strain in his ankles. This is what he’s supposed to be doing. 

Nobody comes in after him. He’s grateful. 

 

*

 

“Lou told me you were upset.” 

They’re cleaning guns. The smell of gunpowder and grease is heavy and sickening under his nose. 

“I just needed some time,” Harry says. 

Niall puts the finished rifle into the bin beside him. 

“I get that. I do. But...you still have shit to prove. They don’t trust you yet. They should, but they don’t.”

“‘They’ meaning Louis and Ben?”

“‘They’ meaning everyone around here. I trust ya. You know I do. But it takes time for others.” 

“I still don’t know my purpose here. Why they tracked me instead of just using you.” He thinks his words sting for Niall, but all he feels is numb with expired anger. 

“You’ll find out. All in good time.” 

“Time,” he echoes. 

Neither of them say anything after that.

 

*

 

The next few days are painstakingly similar. 

Wake up. Shower. Eat breakfast. Shoot until he’s bored, punch a sandbag until his knuckles are bruised. Eat lunch. Work with Niall or Liam. Eat dinner. Run on the same treadmill nobody else uses until curfew. Go to bed. Try to sleep. Fail. Spend the whole night staring at the bunk above him in between fits of slumber, filing through old memories and crafting journal entries in his head. Finally stir when he hears Niall do the same above him. Repeat. 

Eventually, the anger at holding a gun begins to fade, and it just becomes part of the day. It scares him a little, how easy it is to fall back into the camp routine. With this comes decreased reliance on Louis himself, which means they’ve been seeing each other less and less; occasionally at meals, when he scans the training center, when they pass in the halls. He feels like something’s building up, and it all seems to make sense when Niall comes up behind him while he’s boxing one morning and scares him out of his skin, apologizing profusely and insisting that Ben needs to speak to him. 

Quickly, he un-tapes his hands (his knuckles have split and begun to bleed every time his fists hit the heavy canvas) and pulls a hoodie over his head, sticking his sore hands in the pockets and following Niall out of the room, and down the same hallway he remembers from Tom’s sentencing. He tries not to think about it anymore, about what’s actually happened to the kid; he always ends up feeling too guilty and biting his nails until they bleed. 

The room is organized a bit different; there’s a whiteboard pulled down in the front, like in the Hub, and the tables are arranged so that they’re put together in a square, chairs on every side, almost all occupied by people he’s never seen before, except for two. Louis and Ben. 

He hasn’t seen Ben in while, hasn’t been face to face with Louis in a couple days. He wonders if he looks any different. 

There are two empty chairs across from the men, and Niall gives him an encouraging nod as they sit. He swallows hard. 

“Hi, Harry,” Ben welcomes. Harry tries to ignore the swirling hatred fuming in his belly. “I expect you have a lot of questions.”

There are so many people watching him. He hates it. 

“We’ll answer your biggest one today. You’ve been asking for a while exactly what your purpose is here.” Fuck. He doesn’t feel ready. There’s sweat at his hairline and he’s wearing a fucking hoodie and basketball shorts and filthy trainers and he’s  _ not ready.  _

“We have all the information you want. I apologize for the wait. The logistics of the Cambridge attack have been difficult to organize and we haven’t been able to confirm anything until today.” Just  _ say it already.  _ “We’d like to relay the plan to you and get your approval. All your questions will be answered.” 

_ What’s the catch? _ he wants to say, but the words get caught in his throat. 

“So,” Ben says, when he nods once. “Cambridge. We expect the total mission will take two days, with the final objective being on the second if all goes well. You might need an extra day, in which case the mission will be completed on the third, depending on if we hit any bumps or not, which will likely happen. Your squad, 1A, will be accompanying you to the Cambridge and Milton border. You will set off early in the morning and arrive in the afternoon, where you will embark on foot.” His head hurts. It’s a lot to take in, and in a comforting gesture, Niall finds his hand under the table and grips it hard. It probably should be strange. He squeezes back. 

“Once the truck has arrived at the border, you will put these on.” Ben picks up a pair of glasses from the table, unfolds them and shows them to him. “They’re specifically designed by our researchers here. They have a built in camera, as well as some added perks you’ll learn about soon enough.” His eyes drift over to Louis, whose glasses sit on his nose like always. Louis is staring at the table and doesn’t meet his gaze. 

Ben takes a breath, as if nervous about what to say next. “You will disembark from the truck alone. Your directions to the camp will be built into the glasses, as well as a small earpiece attached to the temples. We will be able to watch your every move. If you take the glasses off, or attempt to escape, we will send your squad in immediately and the mission will be called off.” Ben stops for a second. He opens his mouth to speak.

“I don’t understand what--” 

“Your objective is to disable the armed gates into camp from the inside so that our squads can enter and infiltrate.” 

Time seems to freeze.

“I don’t…I don’t understand.” 

Niall grips his hand harder. 

“We’re sending you back to camp, Harry.” 

He’s not sure what they expect him to do. Scream, or cry, or start tugging out his hair. But the truth is, he just feels himself descend into a pit of darkness and despair that seems more terrifying than the concept of...going back. Going back into that place.

His eyes center on somewhere beyond Ben, beyond the whiteboard at the back of the room. He sees the faces of the boys lined up for their physical evaluations. Sees the tear tracks. Sees the head wounds left untreated, and the bruised, sunken eyes. Hears the screams and the gunshots that signal another life taken. Smells the awful scent of human waste mixed with sweat and blood. 

He can’t go back. 

“All you need to do is get in, and we will give you all the instructions from there. We’ve observed these places long enough to understand what needs to be done, and we’ve installed cameras wherever we can. All you need to do is get in.” Harry hears the words, but they go right over his head. His ears are ringing. He wants to curl up into a ball and scream and cry until the fucking flashbacks fade and his memories are wiped away. 

“I know it’s abrupt and unexpected, but we didn’t ask Niall because he’s incapable of meeting their demands with his past injury.” The knee. The fucking knee that’s all his fault. If he’d just stayed with the rest of the group...

“You’re our perfect candidate, and you know enough about the camps to go in prepared.” His tone softens. “I’m sorry. But you were there for three years. It’s exactly what we need to be able to infiltrate.”

He swallows. He feels like he’s drowning. 

Haunted hazel eyes swim before his vision. 

“And...what happens if I refuse?” he asks, and his voice sounds far from his own. 

Ben sighs. “Then I suppose there’s nothing we can do to convince you. But you will be put in confinement and separated from Niall and the rest of your squad until the panel decides your sentence.” 

He can’t. He can’t go back.

Niall’s fingernails are digging into his palm now. It feels good. 

“Can I…” He shakes his head to shake away the feeling of prodding hands and needles at the base of his spine. “Can I have a few days? To think about it?”

“I’m afraid we don’t have that much time,” Ben replies. “We need to decide by tonight to be able to enact it next week.” 

It’s Friday. Next week is technically in two days. He shudders. 

“I…” He looks at Niall, who’s chewing his lip aggressively. Looks at Louis, who’s still staring at the table. Refuses to look at the panel. “I can’t…” 

“This is a huge step in taking down the government,” Ben says firmly. “And if you agree, with the intel we collect from the soldiers, we can begin tracking your sister.” 

His heart leaps in his chest. He never  _ wants  _ to cry, is the thing, but right now he feels like it’d do him some good. His throat aches. He doesn’t want to go back. His nightmares are real enough as they are. He thinks of the needles again, and if they’ll inject him again. 

“You need to go in alone so it doesn’t look suspicious,” Ben adds.

“They’ll know I’m from a camp,” he says quietly. “I have scars from the injections.” 

“It won’t matter. They’ll let you in anyway, and chances are they won’t inject you again once they see you’ve already gotten it.” 

He’s not too sure about that. 

“You really don’t know what it’s like, do you?” he says, shaking his head at Ben and trying to push away those haunted eyes. “They don’t care about your  _ discomfort _ . They’ll inject you as many times as they want with as many doses as they want until you’re dead. They don’t give a shit. And they confiscate all outside belongings so chances are they’ll see your high-tech glasses and smash them.” 

“We have the power to disable them whenever we want. If they look at them we can turn them off and they’ll appear to be normal glasses. They won’t affect your vision, either.”

He’s so fucking scared. 

“They’ll kill me,” he croaks. “If they find out where I’m from, they’ll torture me for information and then kill me.” He feels the chemical burns in his backs, agonizing. The paralyzing terror.

The thing is, he’s never actually been afraid of death. He’s dealt with it more than most. Same goes for pain; it’s just something he’s learned to live with. So it’s not really those things that terrify him. They don’t scare him quite as much as the directors do. The way they could manipulate the soldiers so easily. 

“They won’t find out. I can guarantee you this, Harry. They will not find out. They’ll put you in a tent with others and all you have to do is wait for my instructions.” 

“I…” He can’t fucking breathe. “I can’t go back.” 

“H,” Niall says softly. 

“I can’t fucking go back. You should find someone else. I’m not going back there.” He pushes out from his chair, releasing Niall’s hand, and it scrapes against the floor loudly. He’s hearing things; dogs barking and boys screaming at the top of their lungs. 

“I’m not going back,” he says one last time, and turns and leaves the room. Behind him, he hears Niall get up and start after him. 

“No,” he hears Louis say. “Let him be.”

He runs.

  
  



	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> niall helps.

Harry shuts himself in the music room. He presses himself against the back wall underneath the edge of the piano lid, and takes in gasping breaths of stale air. He’s sure he's drowning. He can’t _breathe_. He pulls his knees to his chest and buries his face in the fabric of his shorts and tries to cry but no tears fall and he punches the floor in frustration. His knuckles crack and a scab splits and stings and starts bleeding and he watches it happen with a vacant mind.

He should probably find a better way to handle all this. Curled in a ball in the corner of the room with his shoulders trembling and picking at the scabs on his hands until they bleed isn’t really an ideal coping mechanism. Maybe he cries a little; he can't really tell. His mind feels far from his body and he keeps reliving the same thing over and over on endless repeat.

_“Your turn.”_

_“When did you get here, then?”_

_Harry felt bad for asking questions when Z was so obviously in pain. He helped press the ice pack to Z’s face--they were sat next to each other on the bed, knees touching softly._

_“A couple years ago,” Z said, wincing. “I’ve been here the longest out of the boys. How did they get you?”_

_“I was with my sister and my cousin, who’s just a baby.” Harry swallowed. “They found our shelter. They got a bunch of other kids as well. Basically we got separated and they got me before I could find her. How…” He took a deep breath, pushing the hair out of his face. It was hot in the tent and the ice was melting quickly, dripping down his hand, down his arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “How did you know...you know?”_

_“I just...kinda knew,” Z said lowly, eyes catching the light. He didn’t look happy but he didn’t look sad either and Harry took that as a good thing. “You just know that kind of thing. It took me a while but…” He lowered his voice, leaned in a little closer. “It was my first kiss. It didn’t feel right. And I kept on trying it but it still wasn’t right, and...well. Then I figured it out.”_

_“My parents didn’t understand that kind of thing,” Harry said. “They supported it, they were good people, but...I don’t think they would understand me now.”_

_Z shifted just a tiny bit closer._

_“I understand you,” he whispered._

“Fuck,” Harry curses. He slams his head against the wall and his eyes are wet and it’s so good and so horrifying and so painful and he wants his sister and he wants to go home or be outside and he wants to breathe in real air and fill his lungs with something close to life again. He wants _out_ of this. “Fuck.”

Why did it have to end? Why couldn’t he and Z had just forgotten everything and run off together, like they’d always talked about?

Harry blinks hard, and a single tear falls down his face. He tries to breathe. He can’t.

_“I understand you.”_

More fucking tears. Now he just feels like an idiot.

The mere thought seems impossible. Cambridge isn’t the same camp he’d been in before, but it might as well be; another major city, another surrender to the government. He can’t go back. And Ben and Louis might not understand it, but he does. He knows the feeling of being stripped near naked and restrained to a table and have people stick needle after burning needle into his skin. He knows the burn of a rifle and he knows the despair of taking an innocent life and he knows how terrifying it is to be fighting for another army, to be fighting against his own _people_ , but have no choice in the matter because they’ll kill him and if they kill him how is he supposed to find Gemma? How is he supposed to find the baby? How is he supposed to disobey and face the unspeakable torture he knows Niall’s already faced?

He’d faced the torture when they’d found out his secret. When that stupid Alex kid reported him; he must’ve heard him and Z’s conversation and, out of fear, confessed to the leadership, who stuck Harry in a cell and beat him until he was coughing up blood and wanted death more than anything.

Harry never said the word again after that. Nobody else found out.

Now, he’s with the Rebellion, and everyone knows, and Tom tried to kill him, and he got Tom banished. One endless cycle. Around and around.

Harry starts to breathe again after a while of hyperventilating. He doesn’t have to stay here. He can find a way out. He can escape somehow. When would something like this ever stop him? He can do it. He can stock on supplies and make a run for it while everyone’s asleep.

Maybe he’ll think about it once he stops crying, once he can intake oxygen properly. That’s what he tells himself as the tears begin to cease their falling and his airways clear up. But when the agony of those memories fades, and his heart rate evens, all he feels is exhaustion.

He curls in closer to the corner, cradles his bleeding hands. He wants to breathe fresh air. He hates this place. Suddenly, he feels the urge to scream building up in his throat, but he releases it in a quiet exhale. He un-furrows his brows--again, he finds he’s been scowling without realizing it. It feels good to relax. The wall is cool. He closes his eyes.

Somehow Harry falls asleep, and the fact that he sees nothing in his dreams is far more disturbing than the hazel eyes he sees every night.

 

*

 

“H. Harry. Mate.”

He startles awake.

“Hey,” Niall says softly. “You alright?”

Harry runs his tongue over his teeth. It takes a moment for everything to catch up with him, and for him to figure out exactly why he's sat on the floor. As soon as he does, he wishes he hadn't because he's just consumed again by overwhelming misery. 

“Yeah,” Harry grunts anyway. His tailbone hurts and his eyes feel puffy. He rubs away the sleep and ignores the fact his hair’s pressed to one side of his face from where he’s been leaning against the wall. Niall looks awfully concerned. Harry half expects him to start clucking over the state of Harry's hands and offer to run him a warm bath.

“I’m so fucking sorry, I should’ve warned you, I just--”

“It’s okay,” Harry says weakly.

Niall looks so broken and it breaks Harry's heart.

“I...I talked to Ben and he’s agreed to give you a day, and I got an idea. Uh, you can say no but…” Niall shakes his head quickly. “Fuck, what am I doing? You’re still on the floor. Come on. Let’s get you into bed.”

The walk is too painful and he’s sore from falling asleep in an uncomfortable position and Niall is limping and definitely shouldn’t be supporting him, not with the way he’s already struggling with that stupid cane. Harry feels awful. Awful because he thinks he might actually die if he has to go back to camp and awful because he made Niall worry.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, and Niall scoffs.

“Sorry for what? This is shit. You don’t fucking deserve this. I’m sorry. I should’ve told them not to do it. Fuck, it’s my fault.”

“It’s not,” Harry tells him hoarsely. “It’s not your fault.” They hobble towards the door to their cabin and turn in slowly; the lights flicker on and Niall stays by his side until he’s collapsed on the bed.

“I probably look like a fucking idiot,” Harry breathes out, shaking his head. “I’m not always such an...emotional wreck.”

“Hey. If someone told me I had to go back to that fucking place I’d be in a lot worse state. Don’t tell anyone I told you, but when they said they were tracking you I nearly burned the fucking base down. Started yelling and shit, they had to restrain me. Thought I was gonna kill someone. You’re...you’re doing really well.”

Harry almost scoffs at this, because he knows it’s an exaggeration.

“But, um…” Niall sits on the edge of the bed and runs a hand through his hair. “Listen, you can say no, but I thought it might be a good idea to get some fresh air. There’s a patrol headed out tomorrow and I’m the driver. So. It’s up to you.” He lets his words float in the air for a moment. Harry swallows.

For a split second, the wind is rushing past him, the snow is getting caught in his eyelashes, his toes are numb from the cold.

“I, uh. I don’t know.”

Harry does know what he wants, what he needs, but he’s scared of the part of him that might take over once he has the opportunity to run.

Niall sighs. “Right. Sorry.”

“No, I just…” Harry puts his arm over his face to hide a grimace. “I wish I didn’t have to wear these fucking shoes.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Niall laughs.

He just starts fucking laughing and doesn’t stop, and half of Harry wants to join in and the other half wants to start crying again.

“God,” he says, wiping away tears Harry notices when he turns his head. “I didn’t even know you were still wearing them. Listen, if you come out tomorrow Lou will have to get you some proper boots. You hungry?”

Harry doesn’t have to do anything. It’s already decided for him, and he’s kind of grateful for that.

 

*

 

The next morning is somewhat of a rush.

He’s woken up at six by Niall, whose eyes are puffy from sleep and who has a drool mark on the side of his mouth. Despite having never actually said yes to going outside, he’s instructed to get dressed and wash up with water that’s far too cold in preparation for their outing. The clothes he’s given are stiff, black denim for pants and a fleece henley. Niall gives him a worn down brown canvas jacket before handing over the boots with a smirk on his face.

Looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, Harry thinks he could pass as a human being.

Except for the hair, of course. It makes him look a little wild.

“Today’s patrol,” Niall begins as they walk to breakfast, “They’re great. Lovely people.” Harry’s new jacket is slung over his shoulder, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The boots squeeze his toes as an odd sort of comfort and Harry feels almost like himself for the first time in a while. “One of them--Leigh? You’ve probably met her. If not, you will. Total badass. Ha, I’m trying to get her attention. In _that_ way. She’s not too interested though. Liam and Nick are coming, too. A couple others.”

“What’s the patrol for?” Harry picks up a couple pieces of fruit and stacks them on his plate, a scoop of gooey porridge on the side.

“Watching for survivors, sick, mostly. Sometimes we can pick up some supplies. There’s a route and everything. Hopefully the roads are too clogged after the blizzard.”

“You knew about the blizzard?” They work towards their usual table, and the chatter of the cafeteria is quieter than usual. Some paranoid part of Harry fears it’s because everyone knows of his meltdown and Ben's meeting.

“Who didn’t? All our beacons collapsed. Our people spent days rebuilding them.” They sit down across from each other.

“I didn’t know you had beacons.” Something nervous shifts in his stomach but he chews his tasteless food anyway.

Niall blinks at him. “Yeah. We’ve got three around the city.”

Harry had never seen them in his trek through London. He wonders how careful he’d really been all that time.

“Anyway,” Niall continues nonchalantly, “We’ll be out until early afternoon. Pack a lunch. Eat with the boys. And lady. Then we’ll come back. Do you have your schedule?”

Harry reaches into his pocket and pulls out a neatly folded piece of paper. Niall snatches it from him and tears it in half, smirking.

“Why--”

“Don’t need it for much longer. Listen, you accept this mission? You’re one of us, no doubt.” Right. They’ve taken off in the serious direction now. “Look, I’m not saying you have to accept. But, like, if you do, I can guarantee we wouldn’t throw you into something unless we knew you’d be okay.”

_We_.

“Let’s talk about something else,” Harry suggests weakly.

“Yeah.” Niall’s expression softens. “Ready to get going?”

He’s not sure that he is.

He nods anyway.

 

*

 

It’s cold.

It’s really _fucking_ cold. And Harry is wearing a down coat and gloves and a hat and he’s wearing three layers underneath the coat and it’s really, really cold.

It’s also the best feeling in the world.

The other passengers are quiet, probably because they’re wary of him and the way Niall had immediately put him in the passenger seat. He’d been introduced briefly, only recognizing Liam, Nick, and the young woman Niall had told him about--Leigh. She’d smiled and waved at him. He’d kept his eyes trained on the rifle at her side.

The truck they’re in is industrial and dark blue, with an X painted on each side. He supposes it’s the symbol the Rebellion is recognized by. The back is stocked with bags of weaponry and other supplies. Niall seems to know exactly where they’re going, route followed mechanically. Harry’s window is cracked open, just a bit, so he can feel the sting of wind against his forehead.

Every now and then, Liam will speak up. Make a comment on the building to their left or the house to their right. Harry’s blocking it out. He wishes he was armed; he feels terribly exposed and vulnerable and he's starting to feel more and more unlike himself again. Not with empty hands and a soft coat and clean, intact boots that fit just right.  

“This up here,” Liam pipes up from the back, “See that brick building? That’s where the first Rebel group was stationed. Back in ‘12.”

There’s a gaping hole in the side, where an obvious explosion blew out the wall. It tells him that the first Rebel group might not have been so successful.

“Let us out here,” interjects someone from the back. Harry doesn’t know their name or recognize the voice, just pushes himself further into his toasty corner of the truck. “We’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“Okay.” Niall’s breath comes out foggy. “Make sure your walkies are on. We’re stationing just outside Trafalgar; give a radio if anything. Stay warm.” The vehicle rumbles to a halt and the doors open, the squad filing out. “Don’t fucking touch my tires, Grimshaw. Grimmy. Jesus Christ.” He waits until everyone’s feet have touched the ground, then raps his knuckles against the window, holds up his middle finger and speeds off.

“So,” Niall begins after a few minutes, truck bouncing along the road. “What do you think of the group?”

“I, um, I think they’re alright.” Harry picks at his jeans with gloved fingers. “They don’t seem to hate me, I guess.”

Niall chuckles. Out the window, a gust of wind blows a snow drift off a roof. “Nah, course they don’t hate you. They hated me at first, but I taught ‘em. They know not to fuck with you anyway, so that’s good.” He pauses, turns to glance at Harry’s coiled form. “You can relax, mate. We’re safe.”

Harry breathes out a short, pained laugh. Of course.

“What, uh, what do you think of Leigh?”

“She’s...nice.” He’s not really sure what else to say; being around people is foreign enough to him as it is.

“Yeah, sure is. Ya know, sometimes I think she’s flirting with me, but. It’s so hard to tell, yeah? Like, one minute we’re laughing and whatever and the next she’s threatening to cut my dick off. Fiery temper.”

Niall keeps talking, and Harry doesn’t bother to listen. He lets the words wash over him and lets his muscles unclench a little and stares out the window, the city rushing by in a whitish smear. He pictures the squad moving deeper and deeper into the city center. Harry realizes, if he was still wandering, he’d want to be avoiding these groups, and would never dream of actively aiding them.

_I’m exactly what I’ve been trying to stay away from,_ he thinks.

“...so Louis doesn’t really have much advice to offer, haha. Same as you. But I feel like telling you anyway, you should--”

“What was that?”

Niall looks at him again. “I said, er, I think you should know, I feel like telling--”

“Before that.”

Niall's face pales a little bit, as if he’s just realized the words that have come out of his mouth.

“Listen, forget I said anything.”

“Niall,” Harry presses. “You want me to trust you all, yeah? What were you saying about Louis?”

He sighs deeply, already caving. “Fine. Jesus. If you tell anyone I’ve told you, _especially_ Louis, I’ll actually cut off your dick. Or he'll cut it off before I manage to. No joke. Not fucking with you.”

Harry nods expectantly. “Okay. Tell me.”

“Fuck. Alright, he...well. He’s...like you.”

“What do you mean?” Harry already knows. It all makes sense, all slots together so perfectly. 

“He, like, swings your way. I dunno. He’s like, into men.”

His heart gets caught in his throat. “Oh.”

“Yeah. It’s a secret, so don’t go around telling people. Please. I trust you won’t, because you’re sensitive to these kinds of things, but if Louis found out I’d told you he’d be devastated. Not that it’s something to be ashamed of. But he’s worked so hard to get where he is and Ben doesn’t even know--”

“Ben doesn’t know?”

Another side glance. The truck jerks. “Lou says it’s not important. And I respect that. Me and Jack are the only ones who know, and it doesn’t change anything, does it? Ben might see it as a disadvantage anyway.”

“Why?” He’s not sure why he asks, because he knows that it’s always put him at a disadvantage wherever he was. Camp was hell.

“Ben...acts like he knows everything. But he doesn’t. And he’s scared, just like all of us.”

It’s not really an answer. Harry doesn’t press further.

 

*

 

“I’ll do it,” he agrees once the truck is parked and the heating is blasting over their ice cold fingers.

“Pardon?”

“I’ll...I’ll do the camp thing. I’ll help you.”

“You will?”

Niall’s giving him several opportunities to decline. He wants to say no. Part of him wants to say yes.

He swallows. “Yeah. It’s the right thing to do, I think.” The architecture facing them is crumbled and worn; a fallen statue, a collapsed pillar. The city is quite broken. “Doesn’t mean I want to, but. It’s better than doing nothing.”

Niall puts a hand on his arm. “We’re gonna rescue all of them. Those kids in there...they need us. They need _you_. No way am I gonna see these assholes win. These are our people.” The hand squeezes. “I’m proud of you, H.”

Of course, if the only reason Harry’s agreed to this is because of his childish need to prove himself to Louis, nobody has to know but him.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry goes back.

_It was his fault._

_He wasn’t quite sure how it happened. One second they were stationed outside the building, poised to storm the place, and the next, Z was on the ground, Ed’s chest was open, and Niall was screaming._

_Z was screaming too. Everyone was screaming. Except for Ed._

_The mission had been warped; first their instructions had been to infiltrate the building, and then Niall had disappeared, and Harry insisted they disembark from the rest of the group and look for him instead of waiting for further orders. They’d found Niall. They’d also found a bomb, and three British soldiers waiting to shoot them dead._

_“What’s hurt?” Harry yelled frantically, diving behind a wooden crate for cover. Bullets shattered the wall in front of him._

_“Fuck!” Z shouted. “My leg! Goddamnit!”_

_It was so hot and so hard to hear. Niall wouldn’t stop screaming._

_“Ni!” Harry cried. “What’s hurt?”_

_But he wouldn’t stop screaming._

_Later, in the truck, Harry had willed himself to look away at the sight of so much blood. Blood in his hair, blood all over Z’s leg, blood on Harry’s hands._

_Most of it was Niall’s blood. His knee was torn to shreds._

 

*

 

When Harry wakes up the day of his return to camp, he has a sore throat.

It’s not nearly the first thing he notices. The bed is creaking as Niall rolls over in his sleep. Liam is standing at the dresser, topless, shuffling through drawers and humming to himself. The door is cracked open, letting a beam of light split the floor in two. 

Harry clears his throat thickly, rolling onto his side. Liam turns and blinks at him, startled. 

“What time is it?” Harry asks hoarsely.

“Almost five. We’re to leave in two hours.” The man’s expression goes a little soft. “Best get ready, mate.”

Right. It hits Harry like a ton of bricks; he’s going back.

It’s been five days since his venture outside. Five days since he agreed to go on the mission, five days since he reported to Ben as a member of the Rebellion, five days since he sold his life to someone else. He’s trying not to think about it too much. Makes it too real.

His stomach is filling steadily with dread. His vision is blurry from the sleep collected in his eyes; he’d gotten about two hours of dozing, only able to push his body into rest after he’d let a couple tears fall, and only after he was sure everyone was asleep. His muscles are sore; he’d spent the day before punching a sandbag over and over until his hands were bleeding through the tape and his shoulders were spasming and he felt like his life was ending. He’d only stopped when Niall had run in and started yelling at him that he was going to get himself hurt.

Well. He hadn’t been able to muster up the energy to explain he was already hurt far worse that what the canvas had done to his knuckles.

“H,” he hears Niall slur from the upper bunk. “You up?”

“Yeah.”

“Mm. Good. Gimme five and then...we’ll get food.” A muffled snore sounds about three seconds afterwards, and Harry pushes himself into a sitting position, running a hand through his hair and shivering. His arms are bare and his t-shirt is thin and he wants to go back to sleep and not wake up.

“Harry, mate,” Liam says.

“Hm?”

“Question. Should I wear two pairs of socks and my leather boots, or one pair of socks and my snow boots? The waterproof ones?”

“Um.” Harry thinks of water seeping in through the worn soles of his old shoes, purple toes and stinging frostbite. “Waterproof ones. We’ll...be walking a lot, right?”

“Well, you’ll be walking a lot,” Liam says, not unkindly. “Speaking of which, did Lou ever bring you a good pair of boots?” Liam then shakes his head without waiting for an answer. “Shit. Sorry. Gimme two seconds and I’ll ask him. You’re a ten, right?”

"I think so.”

“Okay, cool! Niall. Ni. Horan, you git. Get your ass up. Niall!” Liam pulls a shirt on, finally, so Harry doesn’t have to keep staring at the toned lines of his back and the pink scar running neatly from his mid-spine to just below his shoulder blade. “I’ll go talk to Lou. He’s probably still asleep, the lazy bugger. Ha.”

Harry feels a bit nauseous; he swallows down the saliva collecting in his mouth and swings his legs off the bed. Liam leaves.

Nick lets out a groaning snore that wakes himself up, and Harry watches him come back to consciousness and blink wearily against the light entering the room.

“Good morning,” he yawns.

 _Not really,_ Harry thinks.

 

*

 

It’s another ten minutes before Niall gets up, wobbling against his cane, and another five before Harry manages to pull himself out of bed. It’s two before Nick does the same. It’s another twelve until he gets his hands to stop trembling so he can put his shirt on, and one more when Louis knocks on the door.

The usual morning sounds of bustle and people are quieter than they normally are. Harry’s not sure if it’s his own ears tuning them out or if his mood is really so solemn it’s rubbing off on everyone. Regardless, Louis still looks stern peering through the lenses of his glasses and only breaks the expression when he catches sight of Harry’s skin through where he still hasn’t buttoned his shirt. Harry tries to ignore the way Louis’ eyes flit down to his bare chest. 

Louis is already geared up in jeans and that green shirt he wears every day with his boots; his hair is a bit damp, like he's only just showered. He watches intently as Harry fixes his collar and cuffs his sleeves up mechanically.

“Wanted to make sure you’re ready,” Louis says. Harry thinks he means _wanted to make sure you didn’t bail on us out of fear_. “Ben wants to speak with you before you leave. Have you eaten? Where are Niall and Nick and Liam?”

“Liam went to find you,” Harry replies. “Nick is eating. Niall is...I’m not sure.”

Harry’s not sure about a lot of things right now. The biggest being whether or not he should back out of this now.

Louis stares at him for a moment and then speaks, eyes burning into the side of his head where he’s shifted to pull on his jacket.

“Doing okay?”

Harry bites at the skin on his lip. “Um.” A shaky breath escapes him. He feels like his heart is racing in his throat and his legs are quaking a little and when he finally forces himself to meet the man’s eyes, the room seems to spin and it feels a little like he's dreaming. Like he’s living a very bad, very real dream.

Louis crosses his arms and leans against the door frame. “I just thought I’d check up on you,” he says slowly. “See how you’re...holding up. I guess.”

“I’m fine,” Harry says, a little too defensively and not very convincingly. He pushes himself to his feet, suddenly remembering he doesn’t have shoes on. That’s the whole reason Liam left. “I’m going to go eat something. If that’s alright.” He speaks a little accusingly, words holding a tone that makes Louis blink at him in mild surprise.

“I, er…” Louis adjusts his glasses. He almost looks _nervous_. As if he’s the one going back to camp. “I might as well come with.”

God, no. His heart rate picks up again. The nagging voice in the back of his head pipes up: _he’s like you, Harry. He’s just like you._

That other voice, his rational side, reminds him that Louis still has his journal. Louis still has the picture of his parents. Louis has everything. But...Louis stitched him up. Louis helped him. Louis relocated his wrist. Louis stayed with him. Louis.

He’s been staring for too long. 

“Okay,” he finds himself saying, palms sweating. “Sure.” He slinks around Louis carefully, making sure they don’t touch, and wants to cry with relief when Liam appears down the hall, a pair of clean, shiny, sturdy waterproof boots in his hands.

“Hey, Lou! There you are. Harry, mate. Brand spanking new! Just picked up on a run.” Liam grins like a child on Christmas day, but his smile flickers when he sees Harry’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, Louis’ face somewhere between a pensive stare and a glare. “Everything good?” Liam takes a tentative step forward while keeping a good distance, and reluctantly hands over the boots.

“Everything’s fine,” interjects Louis before Harry can answer. “Breakfast?”

He takes off down the hallway, leaving Harry in his socks and Liam a little confused. Again, that little voice chimes in:

_He’s like you, Harry! He’s just like you!_

 

*

 

Harry’s never been one for sentiment.  

He used to have an appreciation for beautiful things. His sister was always the no nonsense type; on time, and strict, and punctually obedient. Harry spent so many of his days caught up in his own thoughts he couldn’t really have been blamed for his label at camp.

Dreamy. Not in the sense he was pretty, which he was--he was always told this, whether it be by Z or by the couple of guards who targeted him--but because his own imagination got him in trouble far more often than it should’ve. Like the thousand times he’d been late for morning attendance when he was six, and the times they missed the shelter buses because he’d forgotten to pack because he was reading, or the times at camp. When even less than a minute late meant a beating, when a wrong answer or a word spoken too loud meant a public humiliation. And a beating--everything always seemed to come with a beating.

Even when the pain was bad, he used to always find some way to make something positive. While Z or Ed or Niall patched him up in their tent late at night he’d watch fireflies through the gap in the canvas, he’d hum to himself, he’d watch an ant crawl through the dirt. The only thing he wouldn’t do was think about his sister, even though she was always the most amazing thing he’d ever seen. That was off limits.

He thinks it’s kind of funny how, despite his wild imagination, his talent was always shooting. He'd always had impeccable aim. He probably saw guns as the only real thing that existed in his life, the only thing that gave him a true purpose. All else came from his own mind.

Now, he can’t remember the last beautiful thing he saw. The Rebellion lacks an astounding amount of color. The bruises on his hands are scarlet and painful. The truck they’re sitting in is windowless and does little to block the brute force of the wind. The cheese sandwich he’d eaten this morning tasted stale and sits solid in his stomach.

Niall and Louis being absent is unsettling. Liam, Nick, and someone else who’s name he can’t remember keep a safe distance across from him. There’s a small speaker in his ear feeding a soft constant static, waiting for Ben or Louis to say something. The glasses are off for now, held in between his fingers gingerly. He’d be too scared to put them on anyway.

The silence is thick and tangible. There’s a knife in his belt. It’s his first weapon since being alone.

Ben had spoken to him before they left, a brief address that made everything a bit more real. Harry’s so scared. He thinks he’d caught a small, pained look of sympathy on Louis’ face as he’d fixed the knife into its sleeve. Ben looked a bit too prideful to be genuine.

When the static cuts off, he jumps, listening intently, and then Ben’s voice comes through. “We’re about four miles out, Harry. How are you holding up?”

From the look on the other’s faces, they’re hearing it too. Harry clears his throat before replying, praying his words don’t express how terrified he actually is.

“I’m okay.”

“That’s good. Niall wants to talk to you.” There’s another burst of static and then he hears Niall, clear and loud.

“Hey, H. Earpieces out, lads. This is for Harry only.” The other boys shift uncomfortably, tugging out their speakers. “Have they done it?”

“Yeah.”

“Right. Okay, mate. I know this is scary. Don’t need to tell you to be careful. But...I’m gonna say it anyway.” He takes a breath, voice strained, and Harry drops his gaze to his lap. “Be careful. Please. You’ll be okay, just trust your judgement, and trust we know what we’re doing.

“You’re coming back, H. I don’t care what we have to do, but we’ll get you home. You’ve done three years in a camp and three years all alone and you’re still going. Nothing can stop you. Ya hear that? You’re unstoppable.”

He breathes. “Thanks, Ni.”

“I love you, mate. You’ll be fine. We’re with you the whole way. Just remember that, okay? You’re not alone anymore.”

It echoes for a while. He’s not alone. He’s not alone. He’s not alone. You’re not alone, Harry.

It’s never actually felt so comforting.

 

*

 

When they’re less than a mile out, Louis speaks.

“About five minutes. Glasses on, Styles.”

They’re still in his hands. He hesitantly unfolds them and takes a deep breath before putting them on. At first, they don’t seem to change anything, but then a light flickers on and it bursts to life; the time, the official title of his mission--Op 001--the exact coordinates of his location, and even more interesting, when he looks at Liam, on flickers his full name, Liam James Payne, his age, twenty five, and his birthplace. Wolverhampton, United Kingdom. It's all too personal.

Above his name, in tiny letters he can just make out, reads ‘Rebel’ in green. The other’s names all have the same little green label.

“And we’re on,” Louis says. “You’ll see a little red arrow in the corner, Styles.”

“I see it.”

“When you arrive, that will turn green. Follow the direction it points for you. No going off course. Understand?”

Harry's brain lurches in his skull, scaring him a little. It would be so easy to run off.

But he can’t. He has a purpose right now and the only thing keeping him going is the thought of saving these soldiers and getting back to Niall.

“I understand,” he says.

“When you arrive at the gates, don’t make to get out your weapon. They’ll search you there. Stay quiet, speak only if you’re spoken to. Do what they say. When I tell you to, take out your earpiece. The glasses will give you whatever audio you need.” The truck comes to an abrupt halt, launching his heart up into his throat.

“We’re here,” Liam announces. He knocks on the wall separating them from the driver. “Thanks, mate. Give us about five.”

A muffled reply sounds through the thin material, and Liam stands up, sliding open the door and letting in a big gust of air.

He has to squint. The light is so bright, made even brighter reflecting off the glistening snow and ice. Liam and Nick get out in succession, and the other man waves him on. Harry steps down carefully, mindful that he doesn’t slip, and takes a look around; they’re in a narrow street, lined with small shops and windowless bakeries. It’s so weathered it’s hard to think anyone used to live here. It looks like the kind of place he would’ve liked to go with Gemma.

“Alright,” Liam says with a sense of finality. “I suppose this is goodbye for now.”

He’s never liked goodbyes. Mostly, he knows it could be the last time he sees the person he’s saying goodbye to.

“Take the earpiece out and give it to Liam,” Louis says. Harry slips it out and puts it wordlessly into Liam’s waiting hand. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” he replies. Nick takes a step closer to him.

“Look out for yourself,” Nick says. “We’ll see you soon, bro. Godspeed.”

“Thank you.”

“We gotta go,” the driver calls. Liam hesitates, then pulls Harry into an awkward side hug.

“Listen to Louis, and you’ll be fine,” he reassures Harry. “Good luck.”

They get back into the truck, and Harry watches them drive away.

The arrow turns green, and it points straight ahead. Harry listens until the rumble of the vehicle has faded into the distance before embarking down the road. His boots have a good grip against the snow and so far he’s not feeling any dampness seeping into his socks, so he figures he’s set to go and begins walking.

He doesn’t have a backpack, which he’d thought looked a little suspicious, but Ben had insisted made him look like exactly what he’s supposed to be: a survivor. A wanderer. A scavenger. Someone with no food and no family and no home. Someone with nothing to lose except his boots and his glasses and his own life.

The roads are steep and curvy. He watches the shop windows as he walks, and they all contain things that he dismisses as useless; a hat here, a wool jacket there, a designer dress. Most of the windows have been smashed and the clothes are in awful condition from this year’s winter. Nothing in particular catches his eye until he notices a stationary shop and pauses.

There’s a whole rack of journals and pens, untouched. He hasn’t written anything in so long. God, it’s been so long. But it only takes two steps in that direction for Ben to speak in a condescending, threatening tone.

“Stay on course, please Harry. We don’t have time for this.”

Right. They’re seeing exactly what he’s seeing. He wants to smash all the windows and scream that they’ve taken everything; his belongings, his rights, his freedom.

 _Why am I doing this?_ he thinks, and his thoughts are the only thing the Rebellion hasn’t taken away from him. _Why haven’t I left yet?_

Deep down, he knows the reason is Gemma. This is the closest he’s ever gotten to finding out what happened to her, the only lead he’s ever had, and he can’t give that up. He supposes saving the soldiers will just be an added perk.

Wordlessly, he resumes down the road. If he spares one more look back at the journals, nobody has to know but him. Well. And the leaders of the Rebellion, whoever’s watching the cameras. But it doesn’t matter. Camp would confiscate it anyway.

The arrow points down the curving road. Louis’ voice floods into his ear.

“You’re close. Keep going.”

Fear. That’s what’s pulsing through his veins.

It’s only one more turn. Then he’ll have arrived, and then he doesn’t have room to be scared. He has a job to do. If he succeeds, they’ll have to give him information on Gemma. On the baby.

“Remember,” Louis says quietly. It feels far too intimate, having someone else’s voice in his head. “Not a word about us. Not a word.”

“I know,” Harry answers, softer than he means. He can feel in his bones how close he is, and his heart is beating faster. “Don’t worry.”

He doesn’t hear anything else. It’s understandable. When he turns the corner of a boutique, it only takes one look to realize how difficult this mission is going to be.

King’s College Chapel is overrun with enemy green. Tanks are positioned outside the gates, and every area he can see is swarming with soldiers, rifles armed. From what he can tell, the towers are all occupied by guards. It smells like cigarette smoke and burning and something more stale he realizes grimly is blood. Despite being a good distance away, shielded by the overhang of a cafe and concealed by noon shadows, he still presses himself against a wall. Fuck. He’s so close. Too close. He feels like his throat is closing up.

“It’s okay,” Niall crackles, sounding pained. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Keep going. We’re turning off our mics for now, but we’re with you. I love you.”

There’s a burst of static, and then the line goes silent.

Harry takes a deep breath. He’s only four steps in when he’s spotted.

“Put your hands in the air!”

They’re speaking English. He wants to cry.

Harry slowly raises his arms. All eyes are on him, about twenty guns pointed at his head. His fingers are trembling.

One of the soldiers takes it upon himself to walk towards Harry. It takes everything not to flinch away, but his hands are yanked down brutally and pulled behind his back. It’s only a second before he feels tight plastic cutting into the skin of his wrists; zip ties. Too tight. He could get out of them if he wanted to. But he’s not trying to escape. He’s trying to get inside.

The man tying him up pulls back and looks him up and down.

“Who are you?” he requests harshly. He seems a little surprised Harry isn’t trying to fight. “What’s your name?” British. He’s British. He’s not one of the enemy, and yet he's Harry's worst enemy.

He doesn’t have time to answer. There’s a cloth pressed firmly over his mouth and nose, and though it blocks his breathing it doesn’t smell of strong enough chemicals to knock him out. His eyes flit around in panic, and it feels like a nightmare; he feels a needle puncture the skin of his neck, yells through the cloth, and watches helplessly as the soldiers stare at him and the world fades to black.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> camp is unkind.

Waking up feels like his first time at the Rebellion.

Except his hands are tied, not cuffed, and there’s no table, just a small wooden chair, and everything is dark because he’s blindfolded. 

He does a quick analysis of his body. Nothing feels injured. He’s clothed, which is a relief, but his coat is gone and his boots are gone, along with his Rebellion issued glasses. The floor is hard and cement; he can feel the surface through his socks.

Harry tries to be subtle with the amount of movement he’s producing, but it turns out to be quite noticeable to whoever’s in the room with him. Someone clears their throat as a way of warning before speaking.

“Well. Someone’s feisty. Take off the blindfold.”

A hand, cold, comes forward and tugs the fabric off Harry's eyes. He blinks once, twice, to clear his vision. The room is dimly lit and windowless, the walls are the same rusty cement as the floor, and there’s a man in front of him who gives him a piercing stare that makes him want to cower away, two guards on either side.

“Here’s how it’s going to work,” the man says. He’s blonde, blue eyed, and has a Scottish accent that probably would’ve made Harry stumble over his words and blush if he was 15 and lived in a different universe.

“I’m going to ask a question. You’re going to answer. If you don’t answer, I’m going to hurt you. Understand?”

Harry risks a split second to look the man up and down. Traditional military uniform. The same he used to wear. Good, sturdy boots. They could sell for a lot. A substantial amount of food.

He nods once. It’s enough.

“What’s your name?” the man requests.

“Harry.”

“Harry what?”

“Styles.”

A flicker of recognition passes over the man’s face. Fuck. There’s something they didn’t think through. It’s not a surprise that word travelled about what happened to his camp; the fire, the uprising. His treason. Harry's name was well known and heard often at camp, firstly because he had the best ranks, and secondly, later, when news of his sexuality spread. He’s forgotten that the camp leadership probably has him in their records: Harry Styles. Boy. Soldier. Traitor. Survivor. Rebel.

“Where are you from, Harry Styles?”

“Manchester.”

“Do you know who I am?”

He hesitates for a moment, then shakes his head slowly.

The man pulls up a chair about a foot away from his, flipping it around and sitting on it backwards. “I’m in charge around here. Which means when you speak, you address me as ‘sir’.” He pauses. “From the looks of it, you’re no stranger to camp. Am I correct?”

“Yes. Sir.”

“What are you doing here?”

Harry’s drowsy. Only now does it register. There’s a distant smell of some harsh chemical--he recognizes it from the infirmary. The bleach they used to get bloodstains out of the floors and the walls and the beds.

“I...I just. Found this place. Sir.”

“You wandered through the town and stumbled across us, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m supposed to fuckin’ believe that?”

Harry's heart rate spikes and he flinches reflexively.

“I came from the Manchester camp. The one that burned down, sir.” It’s so easy to submit, to go right back to being afraid. It’s like he’s sixteen years old again, skinny and terrified and willing to do anything to spare his own life.

The man, who he’s begun referring to as ‘Scot’ in his brain in regards to the strong accent, looks him over closely. “I know who you are.” It sends chills through his whole body. “Unfortunately, I now have to make the choice on whether to kill you because of your crimes, or spare you and put you up as a soldier.”

“I’ll fight for you,” Harry pleads, a little too quickly. “Please.”

A minute passes, and he’s not sure it’s worked.

“Well,” the man says finally. “You’ll have to prove yourself.”

The sight of one of the guards approaching him and the sting of another needle in the back of his shoulder is really all he needs to understand that he's made it inside, and the first phase of the mission is completed.

 

*

 

Harry can’t move.

It’s the serum. He’s sure of it. Whatever they injected him with is powerful enough to paralyze the victim, and he’s on that end. He can’t move. Only watch.

Only watch as they untie him from the chair, stare numbly as they haul his body up. He decides to close his eyes as he’s carried from the room to spare himself the gory details of whatever base they’re in; the only thing he picks up is the stone walls and the stained glass windows here and there, murals of the cross and illustrations of what he thinks is biblical symbolism. It’s a little bit blasphemous, in his opinion.

The serum has given him a weird numb sensation all over. His skin tingles where fingernails pierce it but other than that, he can’t _feel._ That’s probably the most unsettling thing about all this.

And his glasses. Gone. Communication cut off. For some reason, the fact that the Rebellion has no idea if he’s alive or dead sends a thrill through him. As if he’s actually in charge of his own life, despite now being back in the hands of the government.

He thinks he loses consciousness after around five minutes. With blood flow slowed down and sluggish, it’s not hard to fall away.

 

*

 

So. The numbness wears off.

Everything comes back to him all at once; consciousness, pain, realization, and the trigger is that terrifyingly familiar burning at the base of his spine.

He can’t see. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the pain or if he’s in a nightmare or if there’s a blindfold over his face, but he can’t make a sound. It’s possibly the most horrifying few minutes of his life. Or maybe it’s hours. He can’t tell.

He expects the last thing he feels to be another surge of blinding pain, but there’s a split second in which the burning fades to a throb and he nearly sobs with relief but instead of crying he somehow manages to force himself back into oblivion.

 

*

 

It’s strangely artificial, the way he wakes up. It’s not fluttering of eyelashes and it’s not a calm revival and it’s not a shock, either. He just opens his eyes.

The lack of brightness is a little astounding. The ceiling is so tall, he feels tiny. The roof slopes and curves; he’s in a chapel.

 _Shit_ , Harry thinks. _I’m dead._

He turns his head to the side. There’s no ringing in his ears, so he thinks he’s okay as far as head injuries go. The burning in his back has faded. He risks pushing himself into a sitting position, and ignores the way the muscles in his back begin to spasm. He’s in a bed, and there’s another stained glass window in front of him, a crumbling mural of the crucifixion.

Now that he looks around, he’s surrounded by beds. Maybe five to his left and four to his right, with the same on the opposite side.

The infirmary at his camp was a couple of tents. This one is huge.

He kicks the covers off. He’s wearing grey sweats and a grey shirt, the exact same thing he was forced to wear while quarantined in Manchester. Surprisingly, he only wobbles a little bit when he stands up. There’s a needle in his inner elbow he tugs out gently, but besides that he feels okay; then he catches sight of the bedside table. The glasses.

He grabs for them almost frantically, putting them on his face as if he actually needs them. The lenses are completely normal and clear and nothing happens and he wants to scream, terror filling him. He glances around desperately and drops back onto the bed.

“I’m here,” he whispers hopelessly. “I’m alive.”

They must be able to hear him because the glasses flicker on. It’s slow, but it’s something, and the speaker by his ear crackles for a second.

“Harry? Are you there? Can you hear us?” It’s Niall.

He heaves a sigh of relief, and his eyes well with tears. “Fuck. I’m here. I’m okay.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Niall cries. “I thought you were dead. What happened? Are you alright?”

“I…” He peers over his shoulder, lifting his shirt slightly. Bandages cover almost the entire lower half of his back. The chemical burns must really have been that brutal. “I’m fine. What do I do? Please tell me what to do.”

“Alright. Okay.” There’s a pause and he can hear distant chattering. “Er, according to the map, you’re in south campus. Are there windows? Can you look across the courtyard?”

“I can’t see shit. Everything’s boarded off.” He hears a sound from far off and his stomach does a somersault. “Someone’s coming.”

“Fuck. I’m disconnecting. Be careful. We’re listening in.”

There’s another crackle of static and the feed cuts off as he throws the covers back over his body and slips the glasses off, struggling to calm his racing heart as he listens to the door open and close.

Footsteps, heavy. From two people. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Which one’s this?” says the first one. A man. British.

“The new one. Harry Styles. From Manchester.” A woman. Also British.

“Manchester?”

“Yeah. The one that burned down.”

“How do we know he’s not one of them?”

“We don’t. But he passed the polygraph, and--”

“Doesn’t matter. Put him through the same trial as everyone else. If he passes that, he’s in.”

“But--”

“That’s the last word. You’d better get him up, else he might die before we get the chance to use him.” It sends a tremor quaking through Harry's whole being.

The clop of what must be high heels travels back down the line of beds, but it’s not until the door opens and shuts when he feels a hand slam down onto his arm. It startles Harry and he jumps, eyes flitting open instinctively. The man looking down at him is broad and his hair is cropped close to his head and he looks like he could snap Harry in half. His eyes narrow.

“Get up,” the man tells him. “Now.”

Harry slides back out from under the blankets, unfolding the glasses warily and pushing them up onto his nose. “Start walking.”

He takes a few steps forward and stumbles clumsily. He rights himself. Takes another few steps. A wave of nausea passes over him and the edges of his vision grow fuzzy.

“Christ, don’t tell me you can’t even walk.”

Harry swallows the rising bile in his throat and quickens his pace, striding towards the doors and pushing them open. The man grabs the back of his collar to slow him down. “Easy. Take a right.” He turns. The hallway is narrow but the ceiling is tall, and the architecture is old from what he can tell; cobblestone arches and long windows boarded by plywood. It stretches on as far as he can see and it’s completely empty of guards and soldiers.

“Next door on your left.” He’s shoved to the side ungraciously, shoulder hitting the wall. It should hurt more than it does.

Through the door isn’t anything he doesn’t anticipate. A few shower stalls. He’s spun around and a change of clothes is shoved into his hands. Green uniform. Black boots. He pushes his glasses up on his nose.

“You have ten minutes.”

The man leaves.

“Jesus,” Harry breathes out, nearly crumbling on the floor. “Niall? You there?”

The earpiece makes a scratchy sound. “Yeah, I’m here. What’s up?”

“Just…” He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing himself to the wall besides the door. “Disconnect the camera? Please?”

“You got it. Let me know when you’re done.” There’s a pause, and then, “Be careful.”

He takes the glasses off and doesn’t waste a second in stripping, dropping his old clothes in a messy pile on the floor and switching on the water as if his body’s on autopilot. There’s a mixture of blood and dirt that washes down the drain from sources he’s not sure of and he doesn’t really pay any mind to the fact his bandages are getting soaked.

Fuck. He’s so fucked.

 

*

 

It takes a surprisingly short amount of time for him to get placed in a tent.

So, it’s apparent that technology has progressed enough for them to develop paralyzing serums and quickened healing but the soldiers are still kept in _tents_. And all the tents, at least 50, are practically piled on top of each other in what he finds is the center of the whole complex he’s in, all in the huge courtyard. Which means there’s no weather control, and it’s not anything he isn’t used to, but it’s bloody freezing, and Cambridge is a wind tunnel.

The security on him isn’t anything extravagant; they keep one guard with him up until after he’s led through the courtyard, when his companion halts in front of one of the smallest tents and beckons for him to enter. Harry takes one last mechanical scan around as some way to help Niall map the place, and ducks through the flap of canvas.

Then he’s alone. Just him, the dirt ground hard with frost, and the four boys staring at him dumbly from their bunks.

“Who are you?” one of them asks. They’re all young. So much younger than Harry is.

“Harry,” he says. “I’m Harry.”

“You new?”

“What do you think?” one of the boys butts in from a top bunk. “Course he’s new, else they wouldn’t put him with us.” The boy pushes off from the bed and lands on the ground, stepping forward and holding his hand out. “I’m Oli. Welcome to the time of your life.”

“No,” says another one, standing up and sweeping black hair off his forehead. “Hold on a sec. This one’s experienced.”

Oli blinks at him, squinting at the blank expression on his face. “How can you tell?”

“His wrist.”

Harry looks down at where his sleeve has pulled up a bit and revealed the raw skin of his wrist and the faded lines of his old branding. The tattoo they'd stuck on him when he’d first arrived at camp, the one they had to refresh every couple of months because the ink was so watered down it barely showed. Harry reaches down quickly and tugs the fabric back over his wrist.

“Shit,” Oli says. “You some kind of vet?” Oli does a double take, then lowers his voice. “You a spy?”

“I’d shut up if I were you,” Harry interrupts sternly, and he scares himself with the authority in his own voice. “Unless the system’s changed so much they let you do whatever you want.”

“So you _are_ from a camp,” says the boy, grinning slyly. “Where from? And how long? You don’t look that old. Were you a leader?”

“Do I get a bunk?” Harry decides to ask instead of answering the abundance of headachy questions.

Oli stops smiling. “Yeah. There’s an extra. Underneath me.” The boys snicker, all except for the one with black hair, who hasn’t stopped staring at him.

Harry makes to step over to his bed, but is stopped by Oli again, moving to block his path. “We’re not scared of you, if that’s what you’re trying to do. All the survivors who come in try to act all tough but we know your type are just scared.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “How many survivors come in here?”

Oli’s eyes narrow. “A couple every month or so. You’d be surprised. Being in here is better than being out there, anyways.”

That’s always what they told Harry. _Here is better than out there,_ they’d say as they beat him within an inch of his life, enough that Harry had started to wonder if it was true.

“That’s what they tell you?” he says, but doesn’t wait for an answer, pushing past the boy to reach his own bed and adjusting the glasses on his nose. It’s so _cold._ He pulls his uniform jacket tighter around himself.

“It’s the truth,” pipes up one of the boys across from him, Irish accent almost as thick as Niall’s. “Unless…” He sits upright, and the light catches his face from a gap in the tent. He’s wearing an eyepatch. “Have you actually been in camp and outside before?”

Harry sits down, exhaling as his muscles relax slightly. “That’s me.”

“No way. Are there actually Rebels out there? I’m Barry by the way. You gotta tell us what you’ve seen.”

His earpiece crackles for a split second. Louis’ voice speaks quietly into his ear, a reminder that he’s still being watched.

“ _Don’t say anything_.”

“You should quiet down,” Harry says tiredly. “They’re listening in.”

“Who?” Barry asks.

Harry blinks at him, a little incredulous. “What do you mean, who?”

“We’re not tapped by Rebels, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Oli chimes in. “Perfectly safe here.”

Something’s wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

“How long have you guys been living here?” he asks carefully.

One of the boys, one who’s rarely spoken, replies: “A while. Oli’s been here longest. The camp has been around for years, though.”

“How many?”

The boy shrugs. “Ten or so. I’ve been here for five, Oli’s been here for seven, and Barry’s been here for four. Fionn’s been here for...well, a few months? How many?”

The dark haired boy shifts uncomfortably where Harry can see him. “Four.”

“Fionn was a survivor,” Oli says. “Came from a camp somewhere North. Isn’t that right, Fionn?”

The boy, Fionn, remains silent. There’s something about him that sets him apart from the others, and Harry’s not quite sure if it’s the fact he’s only wearing a t-shirt with no jacket, or the way his boots are laced--looped around his ankles instead of crossed--or...that’s it. The look in his eyes, partially covered by his hair but strong enough for Harry to see. That haunted gaze, quiet enough to mean nothing to the unconditioned soldier but just _there_ enough for someone like him to notice. Someone like Harry.

It’s the first step. Fionn is his way in.

 

*

 

Later, he’s not surprised of what happens. The kind of evening ritual he’d grown used to, then not, once he didn’t have it in his routine anymore. The lineup of soldiers alone the north wall, backs straight and noses pointed in the air.

It had been hard for Harry, at first. Learning to perfect his posture and keep quiet when his imagination wouldn’t stop moving. But he’d gotten the hang of it. And now, he slips right back in. As if nothing’s changed.

“ _Oi, Dreamy_ ,” Niall would say in their tent after he’d gotten his lip busted for slouching. “ _When will you learn_?”

“ _It’s not that easy_ ,” he’d always reply.

God. Now? It’s so easy. It feels like the easiest thing he’s ever done.

And so he doesn’t try to ease the pressure on his back from standing for so long, because he knows he’ll be punished for it. He just puts up with it. There’s something else on his mind, anyway. Something much, much worse, and it walks on two legs and wears green and has a buzzcut and a gun and there are about ten of them.

He doesn’t even have to sneak away and report his findings into his glasses. Niall notices for him, always so observant.

“There’s something going on here. Why are they all Brits?”

That’s the thing. That’s what’s wrong.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry's plan.

Harry manages to sneak away during dinner to one of the little outhouses on the outskirts of the courtyard. It’s cold and rickety and does nothing to protect against the wind, but it’s private and distant enough from the crowd for him to speak at a more audible volume. He shouldn’t really be trusting anyone, but the idea that the place might not be tapped raises his hopes a little bit. He lets out a breath he’s been holding for the past day and a half and taps the side of his glasses.

“Ni? You there?”

“Just me,” says Louis into the receiver, sounding a little bitter. “What do you have to report for us today?”

Harry resists an eye roll. He can’t really say he hates Louis, but. He hates Louis, to a definite extent. Harry really, truly hates him; not in the way he hates the government, or the people who killed his parents and took Gemma and the baby, but he hates Louis enough to consider him a rival. It feels comforting to admit it to himself.

“I need an extra night.”

There’s a sound of spluttering from the other end, as if Louis has just coughed up a sip of tea or something. “You’re shitting me, right?” When Harry says nothing, Louis barks out a laugh. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ on a stick. We don’t _have_ another night, Styles. We need to do this now.”

“I need one more night, alright? Is Niall with you?”

“Niall is working because he’s still a member of the Rebellion in case you forgot. If you want one more night you’d better fucking convince me.”

Harry huffs in frustration, rubbing away the headache forming his temple. “I want...to punch you in the face.”

“Too bad I’m in London and you’re in Cambridge. You could get here and punch me in the face sooner if you finished your goddamn mission tonight.”

“Ben said it might take an extra day. This is the extra day, alright? Let me get closer to these people. I might as well get some information out of this.”

“You can get as much information from these people as you want once they’re shipped over here after the camp is disbanded.”

“Fucking hell, just give me one more night. Okay? I’m leaving now. Bye.”

“Styles, I’m gonna skin your ass."

“Tomorrow night. I’ll be ready tomorrow night.”

The line goes dead, and nobody’s there to see his satisfied smirk. He has another 24 hours.

 

*

 

Conveniently enough, the opportunity to corner Fionn arises just that night.

The amount of time it’s taken him to adjust back into this life has been a mere day. It's as if his three years alone had never happened. Like, he just lies down in bed and waits for sleep to wash over him like he’s seventeen again. He ignores all his thoughts and all his anger and emotion and just _exists_. And it feels nice, in a kind of twisted way. Maybe he could stay here. It doesn’t seem quite as awful as how he remembers it, and he can’t tell if it’s because he’s older and wiser, or if the systems have changed so much these kids aren’t nearly as scared as he was. Regardless, it doesn’t seem like an issue to Fionn, as he just kind of slips out of bed and steps out of the tent. Like it doesn't matter.

So, of course, there’s nothing left for Harry to do but follow him.

The courtyard is silent and dark when he emerges from the tent. It’s chilly and damp and he has to take care not to slip; he hasn’t bothered to lace his boots since pulling them on. Harry can just make out Fionn’s distant figure disappearing through the dark pathways, and he quickens his pace. His heart is racing, pounding violently in his chest.

Harry sneaks a glance around and catches up to Fionn as he enters the outhouse; he has a split second to call out his name softly.

“Hey,” Harry greets as kindly as he can muster. “Do you, um, have a second?” The glasses itch the side of his head, making him all more aware of the Rebellion’s presence.

Fionn looks a little taken aback. His eyes flit over Harry quickly, a testament to however long he was alone and out of the system. He’s jumpy. Exactly like Harry.

“You’re Harry,” the boy says. It’s not a question. He nods anyway.

“We should speak in private,” Harry murmurs.

Fionn waits a moment, and then gestures for him to follow, disembarking down the side of the courtyard and through a door into what looks to be the chapel, out of the cold. He recognizes it as the place he woke up in, with its big stained glass window displaying the crucifixion and rows of empty beds. The room is illuminated by the glow from the moonlight seeping in through the glass, all the light washed a new opalescent color through the dye. It’s heartachingly beautiful, enough so that Harry almost wants to cry.

“What is it?”

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. “I, um. I was wondering…” Fuck, he hasn’t thought this through. “Okay." He steels himself with a deep breath. "So, I’m from a camp. And I haven’t been in one for a while but things are a lot different and I figured...you would be the best person to ask?”

“Why me?” Fionn asks a little harshly, eyes narrowing.

“Because you’re not like the others. You’ve been here for four months, right? What were you doing in all that time alone?”

“I came from a shelter.”

“Shelters don’t accept unaccompanied boys over sixteen. Trust me, I would know.”

“I left the shelter and then came here.”

“How old are you, eighteen? Nineteen?” There’s a minute change in Fionn's expression; something flickers behind his eyes. “Your story doesn't add up and you know it. I just need to know what the leadership is like here. Why they’re all Brits. Why they’re like us.”

“Why do you want to know?”

_Because I’m a Rebel._

“Because I’m like you.”

Harry fears, for a moment, that he’s failed, that Fionn will get offended and make a run for it, but that’s not what happens. The boy lets out a short sigh, and then:

“I’m nineteen, first of all. And...look, I don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve been in touch with society, but there was a change in leadership, a few years ago. Things aren’t as tight as they used to be; not for us, at least. All you have to do is what they tell you and you live.” He pauses, frowning. “It’s not a bad life. I don’t know what your experience is, but...it’s not like that anymore.”

 _You don’t know anything about my experience_ , Harry wants to say. But something dangerous and daring, deep in his gut, convinces him to trust this boy.

“Alright,” Harry says simply. Fionn moves towards the door, but Harry makes a split second decision.

“Tomorrow night,” he begins slowly, lowering his voice to almost a whisper, “Don’t investigate. Just run. In the other direction.”

It’s as if he can see the wheels turning in the boy’s brain. The only thing he gets in return is a slight nod, and then Fionn is gone, vanished into the night.

Harry keeps his head low, walking back to the tent, but he barely feels the cold. There are too many thoughts racing through his mind; change in leadership, firstly, and then...it’s different. It’s so much different. It’s so much easier. Everything has changed.

There’s no going back. They can’t change the mission now. It’s so hard, knowing how many people are likely to die, even though it’s a _rescue_ mission. The one question he can’t get rid of: is it really a rescue mission if the people don’t want to be rescued?

 _Yes_ , he decides eventually. _If it’s for a good reason._

Harry doesn’t consciously fall asleep. He expects to be awake all night, listening to the flap of the tent shiver in the freezing wind. But he does, and he dreams.

 

*

 

_He remembers when he realized._

_Because he always questioned it, was the thing. It seemed a little outrageous to him that, out of the entire camp population, he was the only one who liked boys. Well, him and Z, but Z also liked girls. So Harry was different from the get go. But he didn’t like it, because he wasn’t_ supposed _to be different. Being different was dangerous._

_Regardless, Harry thinks the only reason he got caught was just that he wasn’t careful enough._

_Z helped a lot with that. Being careful. Took him to secret places, away from cameras or microphones. Blind spots. That was really all they had. It’s funny how the two square feet of space they got along the line of stacked dumpsters started everything._

_When_ it _happened, the weather was sunny for the first time in weeks, the kind of fresh early spring he loved, and they’d gotten an extra breakfast helping because of a fresh shipment of food. Everybody was in a good mood. There were no beatings that day, nor were there arguments or humiliations. Harry figured they’d get one good day a month, and this was it._

_He realized, on this day, that there was no such thing as ‘too close for comfort’ when it came to being with Z. When they sat with their knees touching, or elbows grazing, or when Z put a hand on Harry’s thigh if he was nervous. He realized that he liked being close to someone. Liked having physical contact. Probably wanted more than just elbows and knees. More than friendly._

_Harry was whisked away to their spot after dinner. The sun was setting and the sky was blushing pink, and even though everything was still a bit damp and cool it felt so perfectly warm. He'd thought,_ maybe this isn’t so bad. Maybe everything is going to be alright.

_Then Z kissed him._

_It certainly wasn’t what he’d imagined. It was wetter, and there was more skin, but it was nice, and the loveliest part of all was how Z cradled his face in one hand and squeezed his hip gently with the other._

_Exactly what Harry had said, he doesn’t remember. But it was something silly, like…“That was nice.” Or, “Thank you.”_

_It was their secret. Nobody else knew it happened. Of course, one secret quickly turned to two, and two turned to three, and before Harry knew it, he was so full of secrets he was bound to explode. By the time Z was gone, he still hadn’t let them go._

_Even after all this time, he has too many secrets to know what to do with them._

 

*

 

“Today’s the day,” Niall says brightly into Harry's ear after he puts his glasses on.

Harry doesn’t say anything, only nods in greeting when Fionn catches his gaze. He can’t remember ever being so...forward. Or friendly.

Today’s the day.

On the way to breakfast, it starts snowing.

 

*

 

He hasn’t really thought much about any challenges or obstacles that might stand in his way; he knows that if he lets himself dwell, he’ll end up backing out. And he’s not worried, really, especially hearing from Fionn that things are different, but there’s still that pit of nerves and uneasiness in the bottom of his stomach.

Something bad is going to happen.

Oli takes it upon himself to begin guiding Harry through what he calls ‘camp life’. It’s nothing more than vague directions but it still irritates Harry to no end. He only focuses on keeping his head down as they walk towards the cafeteria, eyes averted from the guards keeping a strict watch.

Of course, it’s now when he seems to stand out. He’s tall, obviously, but he’s also mangy, and wild looking, and he’s terribly twitchy. A guard whose face is mostly obscured by a mask steps in front of Harry's path, blocking him from the rest of his group. Nobody bothers to turn a head.

Harry keeps his mouth sealed shut. The guard looks him up and down, then steps out of his way.

“These people are fuckin’ insane,” Niall says through crackly static.

Harry attempts to slouch a little when he keeps walking; it helps a little with making him fit the small, skinny type of the rest of the soldiers. When he collects his food--mushy oatmeal and a bruised apple--and sits down at a table towards the far back of the room where his group is, all he can do is meagerly try to even his breathing and wish his headache away.

“So,” Barry says through a mouthful of food. “What do you think of everything?”

Harry doesn’t answer. It sends a grim stab of something he thinks might be pride through his chest for some strange reason. He must not be a very good person if he can feel that way in a place like this.

“Let him get used to things,” Fionn says quietly. “It’s a lot to take in.”

 _I would know_. The unsaid words ring through the air, and maybe the others don’t notice, but Harry does.

The others begin to chat amongst themselves, which gives Harry a little time to run over the plan in his head. It’s not a lot; he’s really relying on the guide of Niall and Louis.

He’s supposed to wait until everybody is asleep, leave his tent and find the main tower where everything is operated, and somehow take down any guards standing in his way and get to the top where he’s supposed to unlock the gates. Foolproof, right?

He gets a moment after breakfast to sneak away, back to the outhouse. “Niall?” he asks quietly once the door is sealed tightly behind him.

“I’m here, mate.”

“Okay.” He closes his eyes, tilts his head back, heart racing. “Could you just tell me where the tower is?”

There’s a moment of silence from the other end, and Harry can feel the tension straining between the two of them. “It’s not till tonight.”

“I know. Just tell me where.”

Niall sighs. “Alright. You know the infirmary? The big building with the stained glass?”

“Yeah. The chapel.”

“Right. There are two towers on either corner. The left one is where all the controls are. They have some kind of wireless signal that unlocks the gates.” Niall pauses. “Why?”

Harry runs a hand over his brow. The cold has faded and he doesn’t seem to feel it anymore.

“I have an idea.”

“H.”

“Trust me on this, okay? It’ll be safer this way.”

There’s a crackle, and then someone clears their throat. “Styles, this isn’t your fucking mission.”

Harry wants to rip the glasses off and stamp on them.

“We’ve made too many exceptions for you. Just do what you’re told, goddamnit.”

“Louis, _shut up_.”

“Niall, this kid thinks he knows what’s best and _clearly_ he doesn’t--”

“I’m the one doing your dirty work,” Harry butts in, “So I suggest you let me do my job.”

Louis laughs incredulously. “ _Your_ job? You’re, like, practically a teenager.”

“ _Louis!_ ” Niall exclaims. “Let him talk!”

“Just listen. All I have to do is get myself into the infirmary somehow, and then I can wait it out until there’s a patrol switch. It’ll be easier.”

There’s some distant spluttering which sounds very distinctly Louis, and Niall coughs a bit. “So, er, how do you propose getting into the infirmary? In the first place?”

“I’ll fall or something. Or I’ll pick a fight with someone.”

Silence, and then Louis laughs again. “I have nothing to do with this. Nothing. Remember _that_ when Ben decides to come after us, Niall, over Styles’ stupid ass.”

“The first thing I’m doing when I get back is punching you in the face,” Harry replies bluntly.

“You two are exhausting,” Niall sighs. “No injuries, Harry, it’s like, a stability thing. Or some shit, I dunno. If you can fake something and get into the infirmary then that’s all you, but. Please stay safe.”

“You can count on it.”

The line goes dead.

 

*

 

The snow doesn’t let up all day, and all day Harry is stuck organizing cartridges in a dark and foul-smelling tent with Fionn across from him. Evidently, it’s taken Fionn a while to work his way up past these kinds of jobs if he’s already been here for four months.

They don’t get lunch, either. Lunch isn’t something that Harry’s ever grown used to, but he at least expects it. He still can't seem to understand how this is supposed to be better than the outside world.

Fionn doesn’t appear to have any desire to speak, so Harry decides to take matters into his own hands.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “What time is it?”

The boy shrugs. Harry waits a little longer, closing the umpteenth box he’s sorted through this day, and sets it to the side, beginning on the next. “Can they hear us?” It’s a bold and daring move, but it certainly catches Fionn’s attention.

“No,” Fionn answers reluctantly.

“How do you know?”

“No wires. And it’s snowing.” He gestures around them right as a gust of loud wind shakes the tent.

Again, for some unknown reason, Harry trusts him. He also trusts his gut.

“I have a favor to ask you,” he begins. Fionn sighs a little, shakes his head in dismay, but Harry presses on. And then, in a small burst of courage, slips his glasses off. “I need you to beat me up.”

Fionn blinks in surprise. Then blinks again.

“You…”

“I promise you won’t get in trouble for it. I’ll take all the blame, just...pretend you caught me stealing, or something. And not anything too bad, just a couple hits. Like I came at you first. You have my word I won’t get you in trouble.”

“I…you actually…” Fionn splutters in shock. “You want me to beat you up. You come in here, you don’t have a story, I don’t even _know_ you.”

“It’s important. I’ve trusted you so far, just...give me this. It’s really important.”

“Then tell me. What this is all about.”

“I can’t,” Harry shakes his head dumbly.

“Then I can’t help you.”

Fuck. Harry mindlessly closes another box of cartridges, setting it to the side. “Tonight. There’s…I need to do something. Please trust me.” He searches the younger boy’s face for _something,_ anything.

Then he gets an idea.

" _Et Contra Surgere_ ," Harry blurts out.

Fionn stares at him for a long, long time.

“What do I need to do?”

Fionn knows it. Fionn knows the code. Harry exhales with such relief he has to close his eyes for a moment.

It doesn’t take long for Harry to explain everything. The kid’s a fast learner, and Harry prides himself in how efficiently he goes over the plan. To his relief, Fionn doesn’t elaborate with questions, and by the time their shift ends at around dinnertime, everything is perfect.

“You have my word,” Harry repeats in a whisper as they part ways. He can see his target; just behind the kitchen, where discarded piles of vegetables and waste litter the frozen dirt. Fionn nods at him once, and disappears into the cafeteria. Everything is okay. The glasses rest heavy in his pocket, and nobody notices as he slips away into the shadows and slides them back onto his face.

“ _Styles_!” Louis shouts almost instantly, making him flinch. “You’re on thin fucking ice. You hear me? Thin. Fucking. Ice. You pull a stunt like that one more time I will personally have your hide.” There’s a series of distant grumbles, as if Niall is in the room with him. “You have less than six hours to get into the tower, and if you don’t do that, I’m going to kill you. I’m actually going to kill you.”

“Would you relax for one second? Jesus. I’ve done it. I’m putting the glasses away for now.” He shivers but folds his fingers together, amused. “Wouldn’t want them to get damaged or anything.”

“Oh my god,” Louis says. It’s the last thing Harry hears before taking them off, and puts them back in his pocket. He’s scooping up a few tin parts when he hears cluttering from inside.

“Hey!” yells a voice--Fionn--comically. “What are you doing?”

The boy appears from a doorway, marching over. 

Harry nods minutely, saying,  _I'm ready,_  and then a fist is slammed into the side of his face.

He sees white for a moment. It’s a searing, blinding pain, and it definitely breaks the skin, and it definitely has a lot more strength behind it than he expects. He stumbles backwards, and Fionn lands another hit, cracking into his jaw and sending him sprawled backwards on the ground.

“He was stealing!” he hears Fionn yell. The faintest trace of a smile plays on Harry's lips.

The tin remains clenched in his hands the whole time.

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry does it.

It bruises nicely.

At midnight, Harry sits up in bed and catches sight of his reflection in the infirmary window; he can sort of make out a black eye and a swollen lip, a small cut hastily taped shut. Nobody’s seen to him, as if he’s a criminal waiting for a verdict. He probably is. He vows to give Fionn a big thank you when they’re out of this place.

Harry decides not to put the glasses on until he’s reached the tower. He knows how to get there and doesn’t really want Louis’ constant irritating pestering in his ear. Harry’s capable enough. He can’t really see out of his left eye and he has a ferocious headache but he’s capable enough.

Waiting the next hour doesn’t drag on as long as he expects it to. There are several things to look at, like how the snow collects on the big window, and every now and then he pokes his bruise to see how much more it hurts. (It doesn’t). The silence washes over the courtyard like mud; slowly and thickly. It’s time, he can tell. He pushes the covers off. Then, abruptly, he hears the door open and flings them back over his body.

Harry blinks groggily at the person approaching, as if he’s just been awoken from sleep. It’s the blonde man, the Scottish one. His expression is cold, hard lines written into the crease of his forehead. Harry wonders how old he is.

“Up,” the Scottish man demands.

Harry stares up at him with wide eyes and slips his feet into his shoes. “Where are we going?” The man grabs a hold of the collar of Harry's sweatshirt and yanks him up harshly. He’s dragged out the door and down towards a distant staircase.

“Where are we going?” Harry repeats. The man gives him a stern glare, and then does a double take.

“Where are your glasses?”

_Fuck._

Harry freezes.

And then he elbows the man in the face.

There’s not much strength behind the action, but it stuns the man, which gives Harry a few extra seconds to disarm him of his gun and unload it, tossing it to the side, and lunge towards the stairs. He’s bought himself some time but he has no idea where he’s going. All he can really do is run.

Harry stumbles up the steps, and as he ascends, the passages get narrower and narrower and he knows he’s almost there. There’s not much thought put into what he’ll do when he gets there; he knows it’s likely he’ll be shot dead the moment he turns the corner. He doesn’t hear an alarm, but he can’t figure out if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Harry trips and catches himself with his palms, which sting at the impact. No alarm is probably a good thing.

He puts the glasses on when he can sense he’s approaching the top. The stairs are fucking endless and when mixed with an ache in his head and his faulty vision he...should really be playing it a bit more safe, though that's not an option right now. The lenses flicker to life.

“Harry!” Niall shouts the minute they’re on his face. “Are you insane?”

“Are you here?” he pants.

“Wh--”

“Are the trucks here?”

“Fuck, they’re about five minutes out. I can’t believe you--”

“Tell me what to do.” Harry blinks hard to clear the spots crowding his vision. “Please. Tell me what to do.”

Niall releases a frustrated growl into the receiver. “Fuck,” he repeats. “Alright, you’ve got one guard positioned at the top. You’ve gotta disarm him. There are two, uh, what’s the word, Lou? Not patrols. Fuckin’...workers, or something. They run the programs. Programmers! They’ll be at the top but they aren’t armed.”

Harry jogs up past a window, one that isn’t closed off. A draft of icy cold wind rushes in through the opening and he turns his gaze up to see the man waiting at the top, gun pointed downwards and right at his face.

“You’ve done this before,” Niall tells him quietly. “You can do it again.”

“Stay back!” the guard yells. Harry inches forward.

“Stay _back_!”

Harry touches his back pocket and ducks just as a bullet is fired, right over his head, at the trick move. It leaves Harry's ears ringing but he has just enough time to pull out a bottle cap and toss it off to the side; time. He has some more. When the guard looks to see what’s been thrown Harry lunges at him, shoving the gun to the side. He grits his teeth as the man’s head hits the wall behind him and his eyes flutter.

_“I don’t wanna hurt anyone,” he’d cried one night, silent tears coming down his face. Z had just watched and Ed had tightened his arm around Harry’s shoulders. It was the night before their first mission._

_“You’ll have to get past that,” Z had replied._

“Hands up!” Harry bellows upon entering the tower, pointing the gun at the two people there, both men, neither armed just as Niall had said. They’re trembling. He feels a blossom of guilt travel through him. “Do it!”

 _That’s not my voice_ , he thinks helplessly, and it’s like he’s watching himself carry out every action from behind a screen. _This isn’t me._

 _Of course it is_ , says a conflicting voice inside him as he keeps the gun trained on them, waiting for Niall’s command. _This is the only person you’ve ever been._

“Stay down,” Harry demands. “Niall, what the fuck do I do?”

“Shit. Fuck. Okay, there’s a panel to your left. See it?”

“Yeah.”

“There are three switches from the right. Flip them all.”

He does. Nothing happens.

“Niall,” he says, voice wavering.

“There’s a red button under the panel. You can’t miss it. Push it.”

Harry feels around underneath the surface; his hand grazes something that feels like a piece of chewing gum and he grimaces. And, there. He presses it, and there’s a series of clicking sounds before a piercing squeal cuts through the silent night. He turns to see the two men still coiled on the floor.

 _What now?_ he thinks.

“Run, Harry,” Niall tells him. “Get out.”

And so he runs.

 

*

 

Panic has broken out in the courtyard.

There are boys racing around left and right, all crowding together and stepping on each other’s toes. He can’t even see, really, but he’s pretty sure the main gates are where the source of the loud squealing is coming from.

Harry isn't quite sure how or when he decides to take a detour, but it hits him very suddenly. He halts in his tracks, feet sliding in the frozen mud so he almost completely topples over, and he turns his head to where his tent is. He’s not concerned about the other boys. They’ll manage just fine. He only thinks of Fionn, and how alike they are, and how Harry is supposed to thank him.

“Give me a minute,” he mutters to Niall, and it must look like he’s talking to himself, which Harry finds kind of funny.

“H, get to the trucks! Now, I'm not fucking around!”

“Just a minute. Okay? I’ll be there.” He whips around, blocking out Niall’s protests, and runs back through the crowd.

He ducks through the flap in the tent. “Fuck.” It’s deserted. He knows he told Fionn to run away but there’s an awful pit in his stomach, as if...as if somebody’s going to die. Like he’s certain blood will be shed tonight, and not all of it will be the enemy’s.

“H!” Niall is yelling. “Get out!”

The wind feels like knives on his face as he weaves his way back towards the gates. There’s the sound of guns going off already, and he wills his legs to move faster. He doesn’t want to die. Not now, and not here. Not before he can thank Fionn.

It’s like there’s a break in the swarm of boys, letting him move towards the source of the chaos. His shoe catches on a branch, and he falls, sprawled on the ground with a mouthful of dead grass. A throb starts in his big toe. He’s probably broken it. He wants to laugh. Harry’s helped infiltrate a camp and he broke his toe.

Harry reaches the edge of the mass. “Don’t shoot!” He raises his arms above his head. “I’m here!”

There’s somebody in the front, pushing the soldiers further back so that none of them manage to get out through the gates. They lower their weapon, and Harry sees Liam, eyes far too sweet and concerned to be peering up at him over the sight of a rifle.

Liam beckons for Harry to move behind him. Harry wants to drop to his knees and cry with relief. He did it.

“Walk down the road,” the man says, all business. “There’s a van at the end of the line. Jack’s waiting there for you. They’ll drive you home.” Liam pauses, and his mouth quirks up. “You can take the glasses off now. Good work.”

Somehow, Harry feels himself smile back; a movement barely there, but still _existent._

“Thank you.”

Down the road, a line of trucks are parked, waiting. Besides each stands a Rebel. They watch him as he begins his walk. He doesn’t bother to look back. For the first time, he’s not responsible for what happens next.

The last vehicle’s doors are open, a white van with an ‘X’ spray painted on the side. He takes the glasses off, and when he turns the edge, Jack is sitting there.

“Harry!” he exclaims, waving his arms in the air. “You made it!”

Wordlessly, Harry hands over the glasses, and sinks down onto the edge of the van.

Yeah. He made it.

 

*

 

When they arrive back at the base, it’s like the calm before the storm.

The descent into the underground is silent. Jack escorts him through tunnels until they reach a place he somewhat recognizes; the staircase that leads down to the gym. The corridors are quiet. Every room is quiet. Even Jack’s voice is quiet when he speaks.

“We’ll head to the infirmary,” he says, hushed. “How are you feeling?”

It’s the twentieth time he’s asked since the van disembarked. Harry wills himself not to think about what’s going on at the camp, the frantic chaos and gunfire. He closes his eyes.

“I’m okay,” he says, which isn’t entirely a lie. He can feel his swollen toe through his shoe, but it doesn’t hurt much, and his jaw only aches slightly from where he was punched. He’s _alive_. And he’s exhausted.

“Alright,” Jack replies sympathetically. “Let’s go.” The walk is slow and a little agonizing, but it all seems kind of worth it when he finally collapses on a cot, papery sheets crumpling under his weight. Jack hands him a change of clothes.

“Tired?” the man asks him, and he puts his arm over his face and nods once. “Well, you did good work. I haven’t gotten any updates but usually that’s a good thing.” He waits a moment, letting Harry catch his breath. “I see you got yourself into a fight.”

“It was all intentional,” he replies, panting with exertion. “I had some help.”

Jack stills where he’s collecting what Harry can make out as bandages.

“What kind of help?”

Was he not supposed to have done that? It’s too late now. And he’s finished the mission. It’s over. He’s done his job.

“Just a kid,” Harry says carefully. “And I didn’t tell him anything.” Jack eyes him for a moment, and then apparently moves on.

“Well. Regardless, they’ll probably be returning soon. So why don’t you tell me exactly what happened when you got in.” Jack sits atop a rolling stool and glides over to the side of the bed, peering down at him. “We saw them knock you out. What happened next?”

The thing is, he’s not entirely sure. He can sort of remember things in vague flashes; being paralyzed, being carried, and that searing, burning pain, but...not much else.

“It happened again,” he resolves to say, finally. “The...I dunno. The serum. Whatever it was, it was the same thing they used the first time. When I was sixteen.”

Jack sighs a bit, crossing his arms and looking down at his feet. He looks like he’s going through some kind of mental debate and Harry pushes himself into a sitting position.

“Do you…” Harry chews at his cheek. “Do you know anything?”

The man tilts his head up to meet Harry’s eyes, but before he can open his mouth there’s a soft knock on the door. “Come in,” Jack calls, and the handle turns and in walks Niall.

He has dark circles under his eyes and there’s a scratch on his forehead and over his collarbone. His clothes are stained with what could be dirt but also could be blood, and he looks exhausted, but when his gaze falls on Harry his face splits into a huge smile and he lumbers over to pull Harry into a hug.

“God, I’m glad you’re okay,” Niall says. Harry wraps an arm around him and squeezes half-heartedly.

“You smell bad,” Harry replies, and smiles back.

He smiles. He actually _smiles_ , and he doesn’t even notice until Niall is pulling away and halfway through an explanation of what’s happened. There are two trucks back, is what he says, and both are full of soldiers, so Jack is needed to do a check on everyone. When Harry asks how he can help, Niall answers, “Just go see Louis. He’ll tell you what to do.”

Now he grimaces. He doesn’t expect Louis to _actually_ kill him, but he wouldn’t rule out an argument of some sort and he’s not really in the mood to deal with that at the moment. “Don’t worry,” Niall adds quickly. “He’s not mad. In fact, he’s quite the opposite.”

“You’re sure?” Harry questions reluctantly.

“Yeah. But we’ve got to get moving.” He grins again. “We’ve got about a hundred soldiers on their way in.”

Harry can never really catch a break, but he doesn’t particularly mind. It’s nice to be needed.

 

*

 

So, as it turns out, Niall was wrong, and Louis isn’t particularly happy to see Harry.

His face is seemingly stuck in a bitter scowl that only deepens when Harry turns into the room via Niall’s directions, but again, Louis’ not wearing glasses, so he doesn’t look as severe, and he doesn’t immediately punch Harry in the face, which Harry takes as a good thing.

There’s something in Harry that stirs a bit, like a constant reminder of Louis’ secret. It makes him a little nervous, and he can’t say he likes the feeling.

“So you’re back,” Louis observes, looking him up and down. He’s on a swivel chair in front of a collection of screens. Suddenly Harry feels insecure and self-conscious, even back in his normal clothes.

“Yeah.” He fidgets with his hands a bit. “Niall says you have a job for me.”

“In fact I do.” Louis turns his chair around. Yes, his features are considerably softer without the glasses. “We need you to talk to the soldiers. Not interrogate them, per say, but interview them and get whatever information you can. Just move down the line.” Louis squints a bit. “You’ve been checked out by Jack?”

“Yeah,” Harry repeats, and then pauses. “No concussion, or...anything. In case you were wondering.”

Louis sighs. “That’s good.” He turns his head just slightly, and Harry spots a thin scar behind his ear, tucked underneath his hairline. “Well. Get over to the cafeteria. It’s where everyone’s being brought in. I’ll be there in a few.”

“Right.” Harry turns to leave, but halts. “What am I asking them for, exactly?”

The scowl on Louis’ face fades, just a little.

“You’re not really interviewing them,” he replies slowly, “So much as you’re...checking on them. Making sure they’re okay.” His voice lowers. “I figure you’re the best person to do that.”

Harry has no idea where this new version of the man has come from, and while his kindness is a little unsettling it feels better. He feels more like he belongs here.

“Okay,” Harry answers. Then, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Louis says, so quiet Harry barely hears, and maybe if he wasn’t still in the room he would think he imagined it.

He focuses on the sound as he moves through the corridors; it gradually gets louder until he can decipher voices, and talking at once, and he feels his heart pound in his chest. Can he really do this? How is he supposed to console other people if he can’t even console himself?

Curiosity gets the better of him, of course, and he can’t really stop himself from stepping round the doorway. It doesn’t look any different from the usual, except...these are young teenage boys, and there’s the sight of injuries everywhere, but they’re all sloshing around cups and stuffing their faces and he wants to cry. Because something about this, something about seeing all these boys together and _rescued_ makes him want something he can’t put his finger on. Like, the past he never had. Somehow he feels like he’s the one who should’ve been rescued, not the one doing the rescuing.

He gets that ache in his throat, the familiar feeling of oncoming tears. He ducks back out of the doorway.

It’s happening again. He can feel it, bile rising and tears coming and his chest tightening. PTSD, somebody once said; he doesn’t remember who it was. This isn’t _that_ though. He’s stronger than that.

Isn’t he?

He’s not so sure after all, as his feet take him back down where he came, and coincidentally, he staggers right into Louis, who blinks up at him, bewildered.

“Jesus, watch where you’re…” Louis trails off. He’s still not wearing glasses and his eyes are _piercing_ without them. “Are...are you alright?”

Harry opens his mouth, tries to speak--nothing comes out, just a strangled croak.

“Fuck. Come with me.” Louis grabs a hold of his bicep and tugs him down the hallway into a side room that looks to have no purpose until Harry notices the sink and toilet and mirror and his own reflection. His back slides down the wall and he feels like he’s floating but not in a good way. Not in the slightest.

“What does Niall normally do?” Louis asks him, wringing his hands. It’s the first time he’s looked proper concerned at the prospect of Harry’s wellbeing. Harry tucks his face into his knees and tries to breathe. His chest burns. “Styles. Tell me what to do. What helps?” All this time, he keeps a safe distance, like Harry might jump out and bite him.

 _I can’t do this_ , Harry thinks, and he bites his cheek hard enough to draw blood. He can’t _breathe_.

“Harry,” Louis says desperately, and takes a step closer. “What do I do?”

“Tell me something,” Harry wheezes. “Anything.”

“I don’t know anything,” Louis replies in distress. “I don’t have anything to tell you.”

“Pretend you do.” Harry digs his nails into his calves and resists pulling out all his hair. “Just pretend.”

“Fuck,” Louis curses softly, and backs up against the wall. “Um. While you were gone.”

“Yeah,” Harry encourages, choking back tears so he doesn’t look like an absolute idiot.

“I had this dream? Instead of Ben, there was this dog. And everyone kind of worshipped it. Like it was the only thing that mattered. But dogs don’t live very long, you know? And it was old already.”

The story doesn’t seem to have a point. That doesn’t matter. “Keep going,” Harry whispers.

“It’s hard to make plans,” Louis continues, voice strained, “When the future is uncertain. When you can’t make it any more certain. You know what I mean?” Harry shakes his head and sniffs thickly. “Like, you know the dog dies. You know _everyone_ dies. But you don’t know how it happens, or when it happens, or how you’re going to control everything after it happens. You only know what you know.”

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles into his own lap.

He can breathe again. Louis falls silent.

“Thank you,” he says after a while, once his tears have dried and his chest feels less tight. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Of course I did,” Louis answers frankly.

That's that. 

  



	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry makes changes.

Louis doesn’t ask him to do anything else for a while, so Harry takes it as his own responsibility to keep himself entertained before his next mission.

He spends a lot of time in between the gym and the music room. Niall is always busy off working, and his squad is constantly away doing god knows what, so he starts tinkering with the piano. At first, it’s only muted keys, and he touches the instruments gingerly, like they’ll break, but then the notes start to become scales and the scales become simple little tunes he remembers from when he was a child. He thinks it helps.

There’s a period of time that lasts about a week where he doesn’t see _anyone_. He only sees Niall when he goes to bed and when he wakes up, as Niall seems to be so busy he doesn’t have time for meals--Harry has been eating alone lately. He doesn’t see any of the rescued soldiers, and he has no idea what’s happened to them. He doesn’t see Louis. He isn’t called in by Ben for any kind of debrief, and he isn’t informed of any future objectives. He just quietly exists for a while, so he lets himself enjoy it.

Harry hears word of an assembly that’s supposed to happen sometime within the month, but isn’t invited to be a part of it. He wonders, offhandedly, if they’ve forgotten about him.

Well, they haven’t. Not really. It just takes them a while to remember he’s there.

He’s on a treadmill when Niall enters the room. The buzz of it masks the sound of footsteps so he doesn’t notice until there’s a hand falling on his shoulder and he jumps, tripping.

“Shit! Sorry. I’m sorry,” Niall stammers. “Are you okay?”

“It’s fine.” Harry laughs a little awkwardly without smiling, and switches off the machine. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah, it has. I’m kind of in a rush, but…” Niall shakes his head slightly and chuckles to himself. “I’m an awful friend. Sorry. Ben wants you in his office.”

Fucking _finally._

“Any particular reason?” Harry asks while they walk. He’s still wearing his sweaty clothes--gym shorts and t-shirt and sneakers--but pays no mind, sweeping his hair back into a bun. He’s not excited to see Ben, not in the slightest, but he wants to work. He wants to be useful.

“Just mission stuff, I think. Nothing too exciting.” Niall winks when they reach the door. “Have fun.” He pushes it open and steps back to let Harry through.

Of course, and Harry's not sure why he wasn’t expecting this, Ben isn’t the only one sat behind his spotless prim office desk. Louis is standing right over his shoulder, glasses on, and in front of the desk is...Fionn. Harry recognizes him when he turns his head. Harry wishes he’d gotten the chance to change his clothes.

“Have a seat, Harry,” Ben greets cheerfully, gesturing to the spot next to Fionn. “Sorry for calling you in so impromptu.”

“That’s okay,” Harry replies uncertainly, taking a few tentative steps into the room and sliding into the seat which creaks under his weight. Fionn follows his every move pensively with wide eyes, but he doesn’t look so jumpy, which surprises Harry. Fionn has been here for a mere two weeks at most but he seems relatively unfazed by the change.

“So, we’ve been talking to Fionn,” Ben begins, “And he’s been giving us a lot of useful information about what’s been going on in camp and before that, when he was alone.” Ben says that with a bit of an edge, like Harry is supposed to know _exactly_ what that’s like.

“What I think we’ll do is put you together for the next mission.” Louis shifts. It’s not like Harry’s been _watching_ him. “Whatever that may be--we haven’t decided yet.” Harry tenses. “It won’t be another camp infiltration,” Ben rushes to clarify at the look on Harry's face. “We need to get these soldiers organized. But you might have to go repair a radio tower or something, or we’ll track down areas that have a lot of the sick--”

“I won’t help with that,” Harry interrupts firmly. “I won’t kill people.”

Ben sighs a little pitifully, tilting his head in a condescending manner. “Harry…”

“I _won’t_.”

“Okay. Alright, sure. But be ready for Mission 002 soon.” Ben straightens up and crosses his arms, beaming proudly. “Either way, I’m sure you and Fionn will make a great team.”

Harry and Fionn both turn their heads very slightly to look at each other carefully. Harry's own eye has healed from their little mock brawl, but he hasn’t yet gotten the chance to thank the boy for all his help. He will. Soon. Today.

“Now, Fionn, you’re excused. I have to speak to Harry about something.”

Harry stiffens as Fionn gets up from his chair and leaves the room, not bothering to meet his gaze. Harry tries not to get offended. It isn’t like he basically saved the kid’s life or anything.

As soon as the door closes, Ben launches right into his next topic. “So. Harry. As you know, I’m a man of my word.” Harry gazes at him blankly. “I promised you that if you were successful with this mission we would begin the search for your sister.” He swallows hard. “And you’ve certainly impressed us all, so I’m keeping my word. We’ll begin the tracking process.”

Harry suddenly wants to sob with something that feels close to relief.

“Of course, I can’t promise we’ll have success in finding her. Especially with the camps coming down now...well, it’s hard to keep track of everyone. But I’ll give you what information I have on her whereabouts.”

 _This is real_ , he thinks. _I could find her._ He knows it’s not wise to get his hopes up, but there isn’t much else for him to do.

“Like there were all boys camps, there were also all girls camps.” Louis, besides Ben, scratches at his chin. “The boys camps were obviously training for soldiers, but the girls camps were a bit different in that they were turned into diplomats. Leaders, let's say. I’m talking brainwashing, indoctrinating and that kind of thing. They made--and are still making--the boys do their dirty work and the girls handle what's left.”

“What about everyone else?” Harry blurts out without thinking. Louis looks at him with an unreadable expression.

“What do you mean?” Ben asks, squinting.

“Like…” Harry swallows again. His throat’s gone dry. Like everybody else, he wants to say. The girls at the shelters with short hair and the boys who wore makeup and who didn't quite fit in one category. There were so many others. Harry probably would’ve wanted to wear makeup if it weren’t for the fact they didn’t have any and Gemma would’ve scolded him. “The non-girls and the non-boys. You know.”

Ben squints at him in genuine confusion. “I don’t think I follow, Harry.”

“Okay.” Harry shakes his head slightly, discarding the topic. “What about the kids? The young ones?”

“They were all kept in shelters. Not the ones that you’d stay in; those weren’t government run. So that cousin of yours would’ve been taken to a shelter.”

Harry suddenly feels sick to his stomach. They’d separated Gemma and the baby after they’d separated Harry and Gemma. And he hadn’t been there to protect them.

“Niall’s very tech savvy, so trust him in this, yeah?” Ben pauses. “Harry, you’re looking a little green. Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry says thoughtlessly. “I’m fine.”

“Okay. Well, you’re dismissed. Don’t get into too much trouble. And be ready for a mission sometime soon.” Harry gets to his feet clumsily.

“Thanks,” he mumbles quietly from the doorway. Louis is still staring at him.

At the end of the long hallway, Harry can just make out Fionn’s tiny figure turning the corner. This is probably his only opportunity. He breaks into a sprint.

“Fionn!” he calls. “Wait up!” The boy’s pace only falters slightly, and Harry runs faster.

Fionn doesn’t seem to want to stop at all; if anything, he quickens, but Harry is pleased to say he has lots of experience with running fast and catches up to him in little time with mild exertion.

“Fionn,” he repeats. “Wait. Just, stop for a moment.” Fionn glances sideways and sighs.

“You’ve already managed to fuck up my life _again_ ,” Fionn scoffs. “What do you want?”

“You...I…” Harry stutters, stunned. “I just wanted to thank you.”

The surprise on Fionn’s face must look identical to his own. “For what?” he replies, begrudging but weak.

“For helping me. And not asking questions when I told you to beat me up.” Harry gestures to the fading blotches of his black eye. “You didn’t have to, and I didn’t explain anything to you, but you did it anyway, and I’m sorry. And, like, really fucking thankful. I’d probably be dead if it weren’t for you.” That’s not entirely true, but Harry says it anyway, as honest-sounding as he can.

Fionn looks him up and down. He looks...surprisingly fit. Not in that way. Fuck. Harry catches himself staring. Who even is he? The boy’s _nineteen_. Harry is twenty two and...the mere prospect of a relationship is something he can’t think about. Not now. Not _ever_.

“That camp was the closest thing to a home I ever got,” Fionn says finally, and very slowly. “I was in a shelter and then I was what you all would probably consider a survivor.”

“Like me,” Harry interjects quickly. “I was one. I...I feel like I still am.”

“I know you’re from a camp,” Fionn murmured glumly, beginning a slow walk down the hall to wherever he’s been staying. Harry follows. “I dunno. It made me think.”  
  
“Think what?”

At last, the boy meets his eyes. “That, like. There’s hope for me here.”

“Of course there is,” Harry says softly.

He’s not an optimist, and he’s never been one. He doesn’t really believe there’s much hope for him. But Fionn gives him a halfhearted smile, as if Harry's actually done some good, and he feels his knees buckle.

“I...need to go,” Fionn tells him, stopping in front of a door he doesn’t recognize. He’s tempted to ask. “Thanks, Harry.”

“Yeah,” he answers. “Of course.” Harry receives another small smile that doesn’t quite reach Fionn’s eyes.

Fionn disappears through the door, and Harry is left alone in the empty hallway, hit with the sudden urge to _do something._

He fumbles with the ends of his hair. It’s gotten so long, and it’s matted and tangled despite his constant showering. He starts walking, and he walks for a while, and when he stops he’s standing in front of what he seems to remember as Louis’ bedroom.

Why is Harry here? Louis is probably working, anyways. Involuntarily, his hand goes up to knock on the door, but he catches himself at the last second. Louis. Louis Louis Louis. Harry _hates_ him. The way he runs his mouth and insults him and threatens him. The way he patches up Harry’s injuries and consoles him and the way he looks when he’s not wearing glasses and his angry, piercing eyes slice straight through Harry like a knife through butter. Harry hates how he’ll never be able to unsee the lines of Louis’ tattoos and how he can’t really hate Louis, not after everything. Not after he’s felt the warmth of his hand on his arm.

Harry knocks on the door, and after a couple seconds, it opens.

Louis stands there in the exact same thing Harry had seen him wearing not minutes ago, except he’s taken off his glasses and...he’s holding something in his hand. Harry squints at it.

It’s his journal.

“Styles,” Louis says.

“That’s my journal,” Harry observes dumbly.

“Styles,” Louis repeats.

“You’ve had it all this time?”

“Harry.”

“I have a favor to ask.” Harry tears his eyes away from the book and wills himself to let it go, to ignore how his name sounds falling from Louis' lips. It’s been long enough, and it’s about time he forgot about the stupid thing. “If you don’t mind.”

Louis stares at him, and then looks down at the book, and then looks back up. His _eyes_ , god. Are they clearer than the last time they were face to face?

“What do you need?” He sounds tired. Like, exactly how Harry feels. It hits him again; Louis is like him. Louis is hiding too, not quite like he is, but still hiding himself.

And Harry can’t hate him.

Harry swallows. “A pair of scissors. Please.”

Louis looks like he doesn’t even have it in him to ask questions. He sighs deeply. “What for?”

A pit forms in Harry’s stomach. “Um. Nevermind, actually. I’ll ask Niall.” He turns to go, but Louis puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“Hang on.” Harry listens to him step away and watches him walk over to his dresser, the same one he’d pulled out a shirt to lend Harry after Tom had tried to kill him, and rifles through the top drawer, a moment later withdrawing a pair of red handled scissors.

“Try not to kill anyone,” he says, walking back over and holding them out. He looks to be going through some mental debate and, finally, he lifts the journal and shoves it into Harry’s open hand. “You should go.”

Harry looks down. It appears to be exactly the same as the last time he saw it, and it’s familiar and comforting.

“Thank you,” Harry accepts gently. “I hope you...didn’t read too much.” It’s meant to be a half-hearted attempt at a joke, but Louis just frowns and tucks his hands into his jacket pockets. “Bye, Louis.”

“Bye, Harry.”

It’s not until he’s retreated back down the corridor when he hears the door close.

 

*

 

His reflection isn’t really him. It _can’t_ be.

He observes his face closely. The bathroom door is locked firmly--the same one he had his...panic attack in. Whatever it was. He drinks in his own appearance. His eyes, green and unsure. His nose, longish, and his mouth, lips scabbed and a little raw. He still thinks he’s the same twelve year old who cried into his sisters shoulder when he’d lost his favorite magazine.

He fumbles for the ends of his hair. Long. Far too long.

He stares down at the scissors in his hands. They’ll have to do.

It seems momentous, what he’s about to go through with. It makes him a little giddy with excitement, the whole idea of changing himself. His heart beats faster but it doesn’t feel bad or wrong. He takes a deep breath, and forces himself to smile into the mirror. His face feels weird, and he’s showing too much teeth. He tries again, no teeth this time, and it doesn’t feel right. Does he even have any happy memories left?

He does. His second kiss.

_It probably was dangerous to have done it amidst the chaos of a mission, but their squad leader had gone off somewhere and Niall had disappeared into some room to go find food and they were alone. So it wasn’t really their fault, was it?_

_“You remember...that thing we did?” Harry had said reluctantly, blushing and too afraid to say the word._

_Z had grinned at him. “What thing?” he teased._

_Harry pouted. “You know.”_

_Z tugged the two of them into a shielded corner and took Harry’s hand. He inched a little closer, and they both leaned in at the_ same time _. Like they were soulmates or something. Like they shared the same brain. It was surprising, to say the least, when Z nudged his tongue into Harry’s mouth, but it was nice. It made him feel like a proper teenage boy._

Harry catches his expression, a barely there side smile that shows the dimple he used to get all sorts of compliments on. Then, as if his subconscious is trying to kill his mood, he’s reminded of the reality; Z is long gone and so is that giggly, lovesick teenager.

He gets his hair as smoothed back as he possibly can, and lifts the scissors to the first lock, inhaling, and cutting.

His ears ring the whole time. It’s not turning out a neat cut, not by any means, and some bits are longer than the others, but he finally gets it short enough to start evening it out. He can see the tops of his ears, and he giggles almost hysterically, shocked. He looks like a different person. He loves it.

When he finishes, he puts down the scissors with wavering fingers and leans in to get a good look. It’s not that bad. The sides are cropped close to his head and the top is a little wild looking, but _he did it_. He’s not a mangy survivor who fucked up by wandering into the subway during a blizzard. He’s Harry. He thinks he’s a Rebel now. He’ll fit right in.

He puts the scissors down carefully back on the edge of the sink, collecting the fallen hair from the floor and tossing it into the toilet. At the last second, he tucks one lock into his back pocket alongside his journal. Just in case.

Flushing the toilet, watching the hair wash away, Harry lets out a breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding. The physical weight of his own hair is off his shoulders. Now to get rid of the rest.

It’s going to be an effort. He thinks it’ll be worth it.

 

*

 

Of course, he doesn’t really anticipate the public reaction.

Niall’s jaw drops when he walks into dinner that night, and Liam stares at him like he’s a new person (which he thinks he is). Nick looks him up and down, mouth frozen around his food, and the whole cafeteria kind of pauses. Harry doesn’t pay any mind. He feels strong.

“You cut your hair,” Niall says blankly when Harry sits down with his tray.

“Needed a change,” Harry replies, shrugging.

Niall’s face breaks into a huge grin. “I like it.”

“So do I,” Liam chimes in.

“It’s nice,” compliments Nick.

Harry tries a small smile of thanks. Niall’s eyes light up.

Then, the next morning, in his sleepy trek to the restroom, he runs into Louis headed in the opposite direction, looking very awake for such an early hour. Harry blinks groggily. Louis’ step falters and he narrows his eyes.

“You look different,” he notes, slowing his pace and stopping.

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Really? Is it the lip? It’s mostly healed.”

Louis rolls his eyes, and...it almost looks _playful_. Like it’s supposed to be a _joke_. Harry made a joke. Louis is amused. What’s happening to the world?

The man tilts his head, squinting. He seems to do that a lot. “It suits you.”

Harry’s insides lurch and squelch together and he feels himself flush. He feels so stupid and self-conscious as Louis examines his new hair. Maybe it’s that he knows he’s being scrutinized by someone like him. That Louis isn’t exactly _unattractive_ with his sharp cheekbones and blue eyes and fluffy hair…

He’s so stupid. Harry Styles is one stupid idiot.

 

*

 

The next morning, Harry wakes up hard for the first time in more than a year. He doesn’t know what it means. He doesn’t analyze it, either.

 


	21. PART TWO: THE MISSION, THE BLUE EYED REBEL, AND THE KIDNAPPING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry gets notified of his next mission.

**may**

  


The weather gets warmer.

The snow melts. The grey skies fade. The rain comes less and less often and the sun stays out.

Harry goes on missions where he doesn’t wear a coat. His hair starts to curl back around his ears, and he lets it.

His sister’s birthday comes and goes, and he says a prayer for her even though he doesn’t believe in God anymore. He slowly stops being scared of other people; he stops trying to run from ones who are trying to help. He talks to Fionn. He talks to Niall. Sometimes he talks to Liam.

He grows back into his teenage self--or something similar to it. He plays piano more and he smiles sometimes. When the season changes, so does everything else, but for the first time the change doesn’t feel bad.

One change, in particular, stands out the most. That thing is Louis.

Harry and Louis don’t see each other often by any means, but when they do it’s less tense than ever. They’re not friends--they’re more allies now, really, but there’s an occasional shared joke between them, and sometimes Louis gives him a smile if they cross paths in the halls. It’s so mundanely friendly Harry forgets a lot of the time the bad things that Louis has done. Does it really matter if he’s hiding the same thing that Harry hid for years?

No, he decides. He’s done bad things. _Everybody’s_ done bad things. That doesn’t really make everybody a bad person.

Or maybe it does. He stops thinking about it.

The other thing that doesn’t change is the abundance of missions in his life. There’s always something to be done; an electrical repair with Fionn or Liam, a supply run or patrol with Nick (who he doesn’t like very much, for some reason), or…

Another change.

He’s started going on missions with Louis. Always with other people around, but he has this strange feeling that they’re going to have to become partners at some point. It’s hard to picture somebody as slight as Louis handling a gun or fighting somebody physically, but apparently he _does_ , and he’s pretty damn good at it. He’s always the one to lead the missions that involve infiltrating survivors homes or ‘taking care’ of the sick. Harry stops thinking about that, too, because he’s refused to be involved with each one.

“None of them are like you,” Ben had tried to reassure him. “No ex-military in the mix. They’re all hopeless.”

Harry wanted to punch his stupid face. Harry still wants to punch his stupid face.

So. Missions, hating Ben, loving Niall more and more, liking Louis more and more, and playing piano when he feels like it. It’s not a bad life.

Of course, there’s kind of a downside to everything. The big one is that Niall can’t seem to track down Gemma.

It’s been almost two months since they began searching for her, and there’s been absolutely no success. He tries not to lose hope, he really does. But with every passing day the hole in his chest gets bigger and bigger and he’s scared it’ll get so big he’ll turn into _nothing._

Niall apologizes to him on the regular. It’s not like it’s his fault.

To top things off, Harry is now required to socialize with people Ben thinks will benefit from his interaction. Fionn is one of them, which Harry doesn’t mind, because they’re sort of friends now. But one of them is the Scottish man who’d been in leadership at the camp, and Harry would much rather have him locked up than be forced to play nice.

His name is Jack, so when anybody says his name they call him ‘Jack L’ so to not confuse him with Jack the doctor. In his head, Harry refers to him as ‘Scottish Jack’. The soldiers seem to like him, and he treats them with something close to respect. When he sees Harry, he looks like he wants to spit at his feet.

Scottish Jack also says he knows thing about the government and the things they do, but Ben doesn’t appear to have any interest in interrogating him about this.

“Aren’t you worried he’ll give us away?” Harry had asked Ben in a routine meeting.

Ben smiled at him. “Us!” he’d exclaimed, steering the conversation to a different topic. “It’s so good to see you settling in, Harry!”

So there’s that.

There’s a lot of other things too, but Harry’s gotten really good at shoving things to the back of his mind and erasing them from his memory. He’s had years of practice.

 

*

 

It’s the second week of May when Niall fetches him from where he’s perched on a stool in the armory, sorting through crates of ammunition.

“Ben wants you!” he announces cheerfully. He has something that looks like marker scribbled over his cheek.

“You’ve got something on your…” Harry gestures to his own face.

“Oh?” Niall rubs at the spot Harry’s pointing to, and red marker is smudged over his hand. He laughs. “Yeah, ha. The kids were being pretty rowdy.”

He teaches, Harry remembers. He teaches actual children.

“Anyways, he’s got another mission for you. Think you’ll like this one.” Niall winks. Harry sighs and then pushes himself to his feet. He’s still getting used to having shorter hair, and his neck feels exposed to the air.

“Thanks, Ni,” he says, beginning the long trek to Ben’s office. Niall grins, and it's the same one he's used since he was seventeen.

“Don’t mention it. Love you.” He leaves then, and Harry is so, so grateful to know him.

When Harry reaches the door, he pauses for a moment and listens. Two voices are echoing from it, Louis and Ben, unsurprisingly, but...they’re arguing. They’re saying words he can’t quite make out but he knows from the tone they’re having a heated debate and part of it makes Harry excited and part of it worries him intensely.

He opens the door without knocking after a moment more of listening, and both heads turn abruptly to look at him.

“Hi Harry!” Ben greets, and with no trace of the angry voice he’d been using not even a minute ago. “Thanks for coming in!” He says it every time, as if Harry has a choice. “Take a seat.”

Harry turns his head minutely to look at Louis. His face is flushed, and his hair is messy, and his glasses are low on his nose, but his eyes are bright and sharp and Harry feels a wave of something wash over him. It makes him feel a little dizzy and he feels his cheeks go pink. He looks away quickly.

He’s really, really stupid.

“I assume you know this is about your next mission,” Ben says. "First, I should thank you for the last one. It was very helpful.” Harry hasn’t been put back in a camp since those few days in February. He’s glad.

“This next one...may be something a bit more difficult. There’s a group of survivors holed up in a storage warehouse in Sheffield, and we need you to take care of them.”

“I’m not--” Harry begins, already feeling the itch of exasperation.

“They’re not those kinds of survivors. They’re ones who the government has let go. They hate the government, they hate us, and we need them gone.”

Harry sits back for a moment and lets his brain process it all. Survivors, but not really. Sheffield. What does he remember about Sheffield? He glances over at where Louis is crossing his arms and chewing on his lip, and then does a double take.

Louis. Louis is from Sheffield.

“See, this one is tricky,” Ben continues. “Because we’ve got to be careful. We can’t send in a whole squad; it’s got to be efficient, you know? Which is why I’m sending only the two of you in. Just you and Louis.”

Harry blinks. Looks at Louis. Looks back at Ben. Blinks again. What?

“It’s planned for next week, so you’d best rest up. I’ll make sure you’re notified of the mission plan, Harry. That’s all. You’re dismissed.”

Some invisible force keeps him glued to his chair. Just him and Louis. Only the two of them. A pit forms in his stomach.

“Okay,” he says slowly, wobbling a bit as he stands up. “Thank you.” He tries not to meet Louis’ eyes as he exits the room clumsily.

He wanders in a random direction aimlessly, before catching himself and stumbling in the other direction, right into Louis, who’s leaving the room.

“Sorry,” Harry blurts out instinctively, face feeling flaming red. He’s never felt this dumb around somebody else, except for Z. Maybe.

Oh, god. He ducks his head and speedwalks back to the armory, pressing his forehead against the wall once he’s certain the door is firmly shut. So this is how it’s going to be? A bundle of nerves every time Louis so much as looks at him? A knot in his throat when they make the simplest contact? Just because...they’re the same?

And now he’ll be stuck in a van with him for three hours, and they’ll be partners, and they’ll have to watch each other’s backs.

 _I could bring it up_ , he thinks, then shoves the thought away and chokes it. He’ll never give away Louis’ secret, and Louis will never know Harry has that secret. Not when the secret could kill him.

Harry wipes away the sweat that’s collected at his hairline and sits back in his plastic chair. He goes back to organizing the piles and piles of ammunition and doesn’t think for a while.

 

*

 

He’s on his way to dinner when he’s distracted by the painfully beautiful voice of children singing in unison.

He probably hasn’t heard anything like it since his shelter days, when the kids would gather around in small huddles and sing songs and tell stories. It’s easily recognizable that the sound is coming from the music room. He takes the detour and even as he nears slowly the sound gets louder and louder, all voices harmonizing. An ache blooms in his chest.

The door is closed, so he peers through the small window; there’s a group of children lined up at the back of the room, dressed in clean, fresh clothing, all with nicely groomed hair and big, bright smiles on their faces. They’re singing something he recognizes, the heavy sounds of a piano clanging along.

“ _Was in the spring...then spring became the summer._ ”

There are men in there as well. He dares to step closer to the door and gets a clear view of the back of Niall’s head.

“ _Who’d have believed you’d come along._ ”

He presses his ear to the door and hopes with everything he is that nobody comes around the corner and catches him listening.

“ _Hands…touching hands...reaching out…touching me...touching you.”_

“ _One, two, three, four!_ ”

He starts, heart leaping in his chest. That’s Louis’ voice. Louis is in there, and he’s singing with the children.

“ _Sweet Caroline_!”

Harry tugs himself away from the door and begins in a painful walk towards the cafeteria. All through his soggy meal of boiled potatoes and stewed beef, he tries to push the sound of Louis’ voice out of his head.

 

*

 

He’s pulling on a pair of sweatpants over his boxers when Niall comes into their room, whistling the same tune he’d been singing earlier with the children. Nick and Liam are lounging on their beds and the halls are quiet except for the occasional chatter of soldiers on their way to their cabins.

“What are you singing?” Harry asks curiously.

Niall gives him a sheepish half-grin. “An old classic.”

“What’s it called?”

“Sweet Caroline. It’s about being in love.”

Liam leans over the bar of the top bunk, smiling big so his eyes crinkle at the corners. “You say that as if you know what it’s like,” he teases.

“Hey!” Niall says defensively. “Maybe I have been. I don’t tell you blokes everything. I’m a mysterious guy.”

They all laugh; even Harry manages a smile.

“He’s not that mysterious,” Liam says matter-of-factly, turning to look at Harry and gesturing at Niall.

“I know,” Harry replies fondly. “I’ve known him for longer than you have, remember?”

“And I still haven’t heard any embarrassing stories.” Liam winks at him.

“There aren’t that many,” says Harry. “Kind of a life and death thing, you know? The most embarrassing thing that ever happened to Niall was losing his shoe in the mud.”

Niall bursts out laughing. “That was _awful._ It’d rained all week, yeah? And those shoes aren’t scavenged like they are here, they’re all handmade from shit material that felt like cardboard. And they were never the right size. Keep in mind I was a scrawny seventeen year old--Harry was taller than me at that point. A better shot than me as well…”

Harry’s brain tunes out a little bit into Niall’s speech, so he occupies himself with examining his journal. He hasn’t opened it since Louis gave it to him more than a month ago, not yet ready to relive anything, but the pages have begun to fall out. He’s been busy trying to sew them back in with a broken safety pin and some thread he’s pulled out of an old shirt.

“What about you, Harry?” he hears Liam say, pulling him out of whatever space he’s currently drifting in.

“Huh?”

“Have you ever been in love?”

Right. So they’re back to this.

Harry thinks for a moment. Lets his mind drift back to his first friend, his first kiss, his second kiss, his third kiss...his first _time_ , his first heartbreak, his first betrayal. His millionth loss.

“I think so,” he answers.

Niall’s face softens. Harry wonders if he knows everything.

It’s not that he consciously never told anyone about Z. A lot of people saw how close they were but nobody figured it to be love or anything more than platonic, because it was _illegal_. Of course, it was for this same reason that not many people wanted to be associated with Harry other than for his high ranks and what they thought was praise.

(Everybody called it praise, the treatment he got. They saw him called away to a private room by one of the guards and expected it to be some kind of personal award ceremony or rank increase. Harry was the only one who knew what it was, really, and the word for it would only enter his mind right before it happened, when he was crying and pleading for help. Afterwards, he was bleeding and exhausted and his brain kind of shut down. That’s a part of his life that’s been permanently blocked out.)

So his first time wasn’t really his first time, but it was something, and it was with somebody he loved and who he trusted wouldn’t hurt him.

It had been in a secluded corner of the small wheatfield, where there weren’t any cameras and the grass was above their middles. Of course, it was at night, when even the guards were sound asleep.

 _No wonder the place caught fire and burnt to the ground_ , Harry thinks sometimes. _There were never any nightguards._

If anyone knew anything close to what was going on between them, it was Niall. Possibly Ed, but he wasn’t around long enough to see everything. He only saw the beginning.

Harry thinks it’s kind of symbolic that the first person he fell in love with was the first person to rip his heart out and split it in two.

 

*

 

He gets a packet of information about his upcoming mission. It’s about fifteen pages long and containing details about what they’ll need to do and where they’ll need to go and how long it’ll take. It’s Monday now, and they’re set to leave on Friday. Harry is not looking forward to it.

Instead of reading through everything, he opts for bugging Niall to teach him _Sweet Caroline_. Niall doesn’t want to at first, something about it being too silly, but eventually he caves and scribbles the lyrics messily on the back of the packet.

“If you want the tune,” he tells Harry, “You’ll have to talk to Lou. He actually knows shit about music.”

Harry does not ask Louis for the tune of _Sweet Caroline_. He decides he’ll figure out the chords himself.

It’s not easy at first, especially because the only time he has at the piano is in the afternoon during recreation and after dinner before curfew. He’s not particularly mindful of any of these rules--he hasn’t read his schedule in weeks--but it gives him a sort of purpose. The tricky thing is that he has until Friday. That’s three days and a bit to learn the whole song.

He sets to work.

The tune isn’t difficult and the chords are easy to remember. Nobody bothers him. It’s nice, and it takes his mind off of what’s to come.

By Wednesday, he thinks he has nearly the entire song. That is; he has the whole song on piano. He hasn’t tried singing yet. That seems a little too overwhelming right now.

Although he does catch himself humming it every now and again, the concept of singing makes everything seem far too real. Music isn’t something that exists anymore, really; the arts have vanished, poetry and literature considered unnecessary and wasteful of resources. The closest thing to poetry he’s ever _heard_ is the Code of Solidarity and that’s honestly the worst crafted thing he’s had to recite in his whole life, in all its three word glory.

It’s around this time when he starts to notice the effect of his own playing on the other Rebels.

Everybody’s humming now. Everybody’s singing in the halls or tapping their feet and it feels like, maybe, he has a home. That’s probably what makes him start singing _Sweet Caroline_ on Thursday.

Well, that and the fact he may not be coming back from this mission.

He skips lunch for it, certain that if there’s no one around he’ll be more confident. When he starts the first verse, his voice is so croaky and out of tune he thinks he’s lost his musicality from the so many years of not singing. But he warms up, and he learns if he keeps his voice soft it’ll sound much less warbly. He likes the lyrics, too. How they rest on his tongue and fall out his mouth. His favorite verse is the second because it reminds him of himself.

“ _But now I look at the night, and it don’t seem so lonely. We fill it up with only two_.”

That’s about him and Z.

“ _And when I hurt, hurting runs off my shoulders. How can I hurt when I’m holding you._ ”

Harry realizes that the whole song reminds him less of himself and more of Z the more he plays it.

He’s in the middle of the chorus, coincidentally, when he hears a sharp voice come from the doorway:

“Where did you hear that song?”

Fuck.

Harry’s fingers stutter on the keys and he turns abruptly to look at Louis, who’s glaring at him.

“I...I heard it,” he stammers.

“That’s on our students’ curriculum,” Louis says harshly. “There’s no way you could’ve heard it unless you snuck into the classroom area.”

“I didn’t. I heard it from this room.”

Louis narrows his eyes, and Harry can see exactly when the realization hits him. “Well,” Louis says with uncertainty, “There’s no way you could’ve gotten the lyrics. Or the chords.”

“Niall gave them to me,” Harry explains with as much tolerance and patience as he can possibly muster. “And I taught myself the chords. They’re not difficult.” He pauses for a split second. “I didn’t know you sing.”

“I don’t,” Louis says firmly. Harry feels the corners of his mouth twitch up. “I _don’t!_ ”

“I heard you,” Harry replies gently. “You seem good with children.”

The man’s step falters where he’s approaching one of the guitars to put it back in its stand.

“How can you tell?”

“From the way you were interacting with them. Singing with them.”

“I should go,” Louis says, looking a little pale. He practically runs out the door, and Harry doesn’t even have time to ask what’s wrong before the man has disappeared.

  



	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sheffield.

They leave at one in the afternoon.

Niall wishes the two of them luck; he kisses Harry on the cheek wetly and tells him he’ll do great. His smile looks a little strained, though, like he knows exactly what they’re going into. This mission is dangerous, and more so than past ones he’s been on. The people they’re dealing with are dangerous. Drug-addled and still sick with the late festerings of the illness that wiped out...a good majority of the population, but has let some of them last longer.

Harry saw all of it. He felt it, too. He hadn’t been quarantined for no reason.

Harry doesn’t like the fact he’s required to carry a gun. It doesn’t feel comforting or empowering to hold in his hands anymore, but Ben insists, and it’s really his only means of protection once they enter Sheffield. Besides Louis, of course, but he also doesn’t like the idea of relying on Louis.

It’s a hot day. The sun is high in the sky and makes his skin burn in the few seconds it takes for him to cross the exposed asphalt and get into the overheated truck. It seems they’ve retired the van now that the weather has warmed, so the driver (who Harry doesn’t recognize) gestures for them to get in the back of the pickup. He closes the gate gruffly once they’re both seated somewhat awkwardly, and the truck speeds away from the station.

But yes, as the afternoon goes on the temperature just gets more sweltering. They sit in silence for a long time, and then Harry takes his jacket off so he’s just in his t-shirt, and Louis does the same not soon after. Their rifles lie next to each other at the other end of the trunk. Harry doesn’t worry about getting bored, even in the silence, not when he can watch the cities and towns and countryside drift by in a blur.

Eventually, Louis gets tired of not speaking.

“We might as well try to get along,” he says grumpily while they’re driving through the dusty roads of the farming region.

Harry blinks at him. Both of them have sweat covering their foreheads and necks.

“Too hot.” He shrugs simply, like it’s a proper excuse.

Louis huffs. “Well, at least I can say I tried to make friends.”

Harry doesn’t answer. They don’t say anything for another while.

“Fuck this,” Louis says maybe twenty minutes later. Harry sighs heavily and reclines on the floor of the truck, using his backpack as a pillow, and turns his shoulder away so he’s on his side. “Styles. Stop ignoring me. Tell me about your family.”

Harry looks back at him, scowling. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I’m planning on finding out your personal information and reporting you to the government,” Louis remarks sarcastically. “Why do you think, dumbass? I’m fucking bored and I’m sick of counting the amount of times we pass a white picket fence. So tell me about yourself or you’ll have to listen to me talk about _myself_ and I’ll be honest, my life isn’t so pretty.”

“What makes you think mine is?”

“I’m gonna be blunt with you,” Louis yawns. “Talk about yourself. Or I’ll push you out of the truck.”

Harry rolls onto his back. “ _What_ do you want to know?” Harry doesn’t much like to think about his family, let alone talk about them to someone he doesn’t particularly like.

“Anything to take my mind off this goddamn heat.”

He thinks for a moment, about how Louis talked to him that time in the bathroom, when he was panicking, and figures it won't hurt. “I was twelve when my parents died, so. There aren’t many memories of them that aren’t hiding in a lockdown closet. Before the schools closed, I was always there. At school, I mean.”

“Why were you at school so much?”

Harry definitely was not anticipating questions, but decides to go along with them anyway.

“Music. I played piano.”

“Stayed extra hours for piano?”

“I wanted to. I enjoyed it.”

“Do you still enjoy it?”

Harry has to contemplate that for a moment.

“Yeah. I’ve missed it.”

The truck hits a bump in the road and jerks, jostling the two of them. Harry’s rifle pokes into his side and he winces. Louis stretches one leg out in front of him but keeps the other one close to his chest, and he wipes some of the sweat from his hairline.

“What about your parents?”

“What about them?”

“I dunno. Who were they? What were they like?”

“How about you tell me about yours?”

Louis snorts. “You don’t wanna know. Really.”

Harry rolls over again, shielding the sun from his face with his arm. Louis’ eyes flit down to his bicep and then back up as if it didn’t even happen. “I want to. Isn’t it fair? You ask me questions and I ask you.” He remembers back to the beginning, when he had first entered the infirmary and was restrained to a bed and Louis had said, ‘ _I tell you something, you answer a question_ ’.

Louis raises an eyebrow at him, cocking his head. “My story isn’t that fascinating, Harry.”

“Neither is mine, but I’ve gone and told you, haven’t I?” He squints against the burning sun. “Come on. Please?”

The man sighs in over-exaggeration, and then seems to cave. “My biological dad left my mum when I was a baby. Saw him every few weeks. He drank a lot.”

Harry watches his face closely for any kind of remorse or upset, but can’t find any. “Oh,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.” He means it.

“It’s alright. I don’t remember him much.”

“What about your mum? Did you have any siblings?” He doesn’t even think before the words come out of his mouth.

Louis then gets this look on his face; the kind Harry had been looking for. The _upset_.

“What about your sister?” Louis shoots back cooly. “You haven’t told me anything about her.”

Alright. No talk of the rest of Louis’ family. “She was lovely. The best person I’ve ever known. She became my mum.”

“That must’ve been a pain.”

“Not with her. She...she was different. She was really good.”

Louis stares at him for a long moment. “Do you believe she’s gone?”

The blood stills in Harry’s veins. “I can’t believe she’s gone. Else I have nothing to live for.”

Louis looks like he understands.

 

*

 

It’s similar to his first camp mission when they arrive, in that their ride stops a mile or so outside their destination for them to continue on foot. So the pickup comes to a halt, Harry and Louis lug their backpacks and rifles onto their shoulders and bid goodbye to their driver.

The landscape is nothing. There’s nothing to be heard and nothing to be seen; only empty roads and trees on hills and the occasional brick house. It’s empty, deserted and barren. It’s peaceful and eerie.

Of course, nothing comes without a catch, and Louis, here, is the catch.

He just _complains_ . The whole time they walk, despite the sun being half-hidden behind some trees, he doesn’t shut his mouth about how hot it is, or how he’s hungry, or how his feet hurt. He acts more like a toddler than a grown man. A grown _Rebel_ , for that matter. Harry wants to smack him.

“Would you please shut up?” Harry sighs after a good several minutes of Louis’ whining. “I don’t know if we’re going the right way.”

“We are,” replies Louis sulkily. “I’ve been in this area before.”

Harry looks at him. His glasses are nearly hanging off his nose, hair stuck to the side of his face with sweat. “You have?”

“Of course I have. Thought you knew where I was from.”

“I…” Harry fishmouths for a moment, searching for the right words. “I didn’t know you meant, like. This area.”

A grimace forms on Louis’ face, like he’s tasted something sour. “Yeah. Well. My shelter was a few blocks down, maybe. A church.”

He tries to picture Louis in a shelter, younger and more innocent and more afraid. The kind of shelters he stayed in weren’t kind to teenage boys; bare necessities for food and a single tattered blanket for warmth, maybe a cushion if they were lucky. He never minded because he wanted Gemma to be more comfortable--it was his duty, after all, to protect her. She would usually end up giving him her quilt anyway.

“So you stayed in a shelter?” Harry tries feebly, a meager attempt at conversation.

“What gave it away?” Louis turns and gives him a deadly side-smirk, and Harry almost falls over.

Is he... _flirting_?

Harry’s pace slows so much he falls several feet behind where Louis’ still walking on, chin up. His heart feels high in his throat. Louis isn’t supposed to flirt with his colleagues. Not with _him_ . Not with another _man_. Not when he knows Harry is like him, and when Harry knows more than that.

“I just…” Harry jogs to keep up. “I was just wondering. Because I thought you’ve been with the Rebellion for a long time.”

“I have.” He pauses. “It’s...a long story. Not one for now, anyways. We’re close. Give it five minutes, and we’ll be there.”

“But...but how did you end up in a shelter?” Harry splutters. “Because I spent a long time in between shelters and if you were associated with an outside organization they’d turn you away.”

Louis looks at him, displeasing. “You tend to make a lot of assumptions, you know that?”

“I’m curious.”

“Have you ever heard the expression,” Louis says, simpering, “Curiosity killed the cat?”

“I’m,” Harry replies in confusion. “I’m not a cat.”

Louis snorts. “I know, Harry. That’s why it’s an expression.”

Harry rolls his eyes. The sun doesn’t seem quite so bothersome anymore. “You don’t need to condescend me.” He pouts, and suddenly realizes he may be flirting too. It sends his pulse skyrocketing. “I’m not a teenager, you know.”

“I know,” the man repeats, stepping off the curb so he’s walking in the road. Harry tenses. “You looked like Tarzan when you came through the doors of the Rebellion. With all that hair gone, you look a good ten years younger.”

“What’s Tarzan?”

Louis furrows his brows at him. “You’re joking, yeah?”

Harry shakes his head and feels his face go hot.

“Damn.” Louis huffs out something that resembles a laugh but sounds a little too sad. They walk by what looks like it used to be a printing shop, ridden with leaves and vines. Its windows are smashed in. Harry tries not to look so embarrassed by pretending to examine the greenery. “You ever seen a Disney movie?”

Harry shakes his head again, not meeting Louis’ eyes.

“Not even before you were twelve? Before the coup?”

“We didn’t have a TV.” Harry flushes. “We didn’t have any money. Government and their tax breaks for the rich, increases for the poor and all that.”

“Your shelters didn’t have movie nights or anything?”

Harry glares at him incredulously. “They were _shelters_ , not playrooms. They gave us places to _sleep_.”

 _Louis’ had it worst._ It’s what Niall had told him in the computer lab all that time ago. He’s not sure if he believes it anymore. How come Louis has done all these things he hasn’t even heard of? Disney? Tarzan? It’s like they lived in different universes.

“You must’ve had a--” _Wonderful childhood_ , he’s going to say, but Louis holds up a hand to silence him. Harry freezes.

“Did you hear that?” Louis asks quietly, completely serious now.

Three things happen in quick succession. First, Louis turns to look at Harry. Second, his eyes widen and his mouth opens, like he’s about to say something.

Third, Harry feels a bullet whiz past his ear.

It takes a long time for him to react. The ear that was almost shot off starts ringing so loudly the sound of Louis yelling at him to get down is drowned out. He clutches the side of his head, and his hand instantly becomes wet with blood. The bullet came so close he can feel where his hair singed off.

“Harry!” Louis is screaming at him, and he lunges forward to grab Harry’s arm and pull him forward as hard as he can. “Run, you idiot! Run!”

There’s somebody chasing them, he’s pretty sure. He feels like his ear is bleeding. With his working ear he can hear gunshots sounding out loud and clear, and he’s trying to figure out where they’re coming from but Louis keeps pulling him forward.

“Louis,” he tries. “They’re…”

“Quiet,” Louis snaps at him and lurches to the side, ducking through a doorframe and closing the door firmly, pressing the two of them into the wall opposite. His arm is over Harry’s chest, warm and secure, but he takes it away quickly. Harry tries not to feel disappointed at the loss of safe touch and blinks against the dim lighting, attempting to rifle through what’s just happened.

Louis touches a finger to the side of his glasses, and Harry doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until he starts talking. He listens intently and waits for the ringing to fade. “Ben. We’re having some trouble. Styles was almost shot in the head. Harry, can you hear me?” Harry nods slowly, nausea creeping up his throat. He must look green. “Thank fuck. Styles isn’t deaf. What’s your call?”

Harry wipes sweat from his forehead and--yeah, that’s definitely blood. It’s kind of funny for some reason. He almost ended up one-eared. He goes to start laughing but instead leans over and pukes.

“Fuck,” Louis says. His voice has fallen to nearly a whisper. “Harry, quiet. Okay. We’ll do that. The ringing will fade, right?” He stops to listen as Harry wipes his mouth and straightens up. “Thanks. We’ll be careful.”

Louis huddles into a corner and fishes something out of his backpack, so Harry occupies himself with peering around the room they’re holed up in.

It looks like something that used to be a little shop; the windows are long shattered, which doesn’t surprise him in the slightest, but there’s a counter with an abandoned register and a few shelves that have been knocked down. No food or anything useful in sight.

“Where do we go?” he asks hoarsely. Louis appears to be looking down at a map. “I thought you knew your way around.”

“I do,” Louis says. “We need a different route, but there’s only one. And the fucking bastards have guns. Christ.”

“We have guns too,” Harry states simply. There’s a bad taste in his mouth. He takes off his backpack and starts digging through it for his water bottle. “And we’re trained better. They’re also sick, remember? I was sick with the same thing. And it affects your vision and--”

“What do you mean, the same thing?” Louis looks up at him over his glasses. “You survived?”

Harry clears his throat and finally finds the water. “Yeah. Was quarantined for a while.” He takes the lid off. “But it affects your vision, anyways, so they won’t be able to aim. It also--”

“Mate,” Louis says unsurely. “Nobody survives.”

He takes a long gulp from his water bottle, mind caught up on the fact Louis called him _mate_ before what he’s said sinks in. “Hm?”

“You know there were--” Louis stops himself, sighing. “There were two strains of the virus. The first one, the one the survivors are sick with, it’s like...a mildly contagious but more extreme flu. There’s a vaccine for that one that you and I both had, but the survivors haven’t. But they just keep passing it amongst themselves and they spread it to the food as well...anyways. The other strain is the one that spread through the camps. The deadly one. The one that you would’ve had, except you couldn’t have because you’d be dead.”

Harry shakes his head in bewilderment. “That’s impossible.” He’s about to continue but a loud and incoherent voice rings out from the other side of the door and his blood runs cold.

“Fuck,” Louis whispers. “Check the back room for an exit.” He switches the safety off his rifle and positions himself by the door. Harry scrambles for his pack.

“ _Open the fucking door!_ ” the voice shouts. The back room is wide open and there’s a single boarded window against the furthest wall; Harry digs around for a knife in his pocket and begins prying of the nails keeping the plywood secured. His hands won’t stop shaking. He doesn’t understand why he’s so afraid when he’s been in situations far worse than this.  

When he finally gets the board off, the yelling has increased to near screaming, and it’s worse than ‘open the fucking door’, it’s threats and _I know you’re in there_ , which is all the more terrifying. “Louis,” he says urgently. “The window.”

He watches the man back away from the front door and jog over to the window. “You first,” Louis says. Harry hoists his backpack higher on his shoulder and swings his leg up and out, ducking his head to avoid getting cut, and stumbling a little ungracefully out of the shop. Louis follows suit quickly, and holds a finger to his mouth. _Quiet._ Harry still has no idea what the plan is.

Louis leads them through the shrubbery behind the building. They keep their footsteps light. There’s trash and rotting food all over the ground and if Harry listens hard enough through the faint ringing, he can hear the man’s voice still shouting.

“Where are we going?” he whispers. Louis silences him. Harry’s getting sick of that.

“ _Louis_ ,” he insists. “Where are we going?”

“We have a mission to complete,” is all Louis says, and he only moves faster so they’re no longer in dead trees and plants but walking through what looks like the beginning of a forest--a small one, at that.

All Harry can do is trust Louis knows where he’s going.

They only stop after they’ve taken a left turn and reached the edge of the group of trees. There, painted faded yellow and weathered from the years left unattended, is the storage warehouse, a car park the only thing separating them and the one lone man milling around the main entrance.

The job they’re supposed to be completing is infiltrating the base. There can’t be too many people in there, right? Staring at the warehouse, however, makes it seem a little more real and a lot more daunting.

“How many are there again?” Harry asks slowly, not taking his eyes off the building.

“Seventeen,” Louis replies. Fuck. Okay.  They can do this.

“We just…kill them?”

Louis nods.

Harry’s not sure he can do this.

If he’s being frank, his own personal mission isn’t too bad. He just needs to get in far enough to cut the power, and Louis will take care of the hard part. The killing part. But this is a lot, and he has a gun, and he might need to use it, but he doesn’t have time to mull anything over because Louis is looking both ways and darting across the parking lot, out of the line of vision of the man, whose back is turned.

Right. They’re doing this.

 _Distract him,_ Louis mouths once Harry’s hurried across the lot as well.

Harry raises his eyebrows in question. _How?_

Louis shrugs and waves him forward.

Creeping around the corner and confronting the patrolling survivor is probably the last thing he’d like to do, but he does it anyway, and it only takes a second for the man to notice him. His mouth opens wide revealing lines of yellow teeth and--Harry steps backwards like he’s been burned. The man’s eye is missing, a gape in his face where it should be.

He raises his gun right as Harry raises his, and for a moment he’s certain Louis has abandoned him, but then a flying figure tackles the survivor to the ground. Harry takes the extra moment to catch his breath.

“Well,” Louis says. The man is now unmoving on the ground, and Harry doesn’t try to think about why or how. “One down, sixteen to go.”

There’s a scream, and then another man appears over Louis’ shoulder, and there’s a glint of a knife catching the light, and Louis is on the ground, and everything falls apart.

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> louis cracks.

Really, the first thing he thinks of is to raise his gun.

Louis is down. Okay. Louis is on the ground. The survivor crouched over him is holding a bloody knife, and suddenly, Harry knows what’s happened.

“Put your hands up!” Harry demands, and is surprised when his voice doesn’t waver. The man smiles wickedly up at him, stands up, and goes to throw the knife.

Without thinking, Harry pulls the trigger.

The body falls to the ground. He knows he has only a few seconds to figure out what to do, but he takes one of them to kneel down at Louis’ side. Louis' eyes are open but they droop, and then flutter, and then he speaks in a very low croak.

“Take my glasses.”

“What?”

There’s blood seeping through the front of his shirt at a consistent rate, and when Louis brings his trembling hand up to take off his glasses Harry sees it’s coated with even more blood.

“Contact Ben,” Louis rasps. “Tell him…” His eyes flutter again, and then his neck goes limp.

“Louis,” Harry pleads. “Come on.” He glances around; there’s no one in sight. They have to leave. The mission can’t matter anymore, right? Not when Louis is bleeding out. _Fuck._ The total realization hits him abruptly. He’s knelt outside a base of fifteen survivors with an unconscious body in front of him. Alright. He swings the rifle strap over his shoulder. Louis isn’t too tall or broad, so he should be easy to carry.

He’s about as light as he looks. Harry is able to lift him with ease and immediately starts his retreat towards the shop.

Louis is completely out cold. Harry’s heart pounds and he goes faster.

He hasn’t really thought it through. There’s no clear way of getting Louis through the window, and Harry’s arms are already burning from exertion, but he pulls through; he manages to fit Louis inside and lowers him as carefully as he can. Harry loses his balance before Louis is all the way to the floor and ends up dropping him the two extra inches.

“Sorry,” he whispers even though Louis can’t hear him. “Consider it payback for the wrist.”

Once he’s climbed through the window himself, the panic really sets in. Louis still isn’t moving. He could be dead.

_“Put pressure on the wound,” Z told him. His shaking fingers went to Harry’s slick chest._

“Okay,” Harry says. “Okay.” The man isn’t positioned outside anymore. They’re safe for the moment. He drops to his knees and tries to calm himself before pulling back Louis’ jacket in an attempt to expose the wound.

It’s...bad. There’s a lot of blood. Harry’s used to blood but this is _a lot,_ more than he knows what to do with. There’s a big open knife wound in the center of his abdomen and his shirt is soaked. It looks like a cut, but Harry can't tell how deep it is or if it penetrated further than just outer flesh. Harry unties the jacket from his waist, folds it, takes a deep breath, and presses it to the wound as firmly as he can.

Louis’ eyes drift open as Harry does it. He coughs.

“Am I dying?” he jokes weakly, and coughs again, face contorting in pain.

“Stay quiet,” Harry tells him. “Where’s the button on your glasses?”

“Behind, uh…” Louis’ squints, and his head tilts back like he’s about to drop off again, but he jolts back to consciousness. “Right ear.”

Harry inches his hand up Louis’ neck and to his hairline. It feels far too intimate, and Harry thinks Louis leans into the touch. That scares him a lot. He finds the button fairly easily, and presses it as gently as he can.

“Louis,” he says. “Stay awake. Talk to Ben.”

“Can’t,” Louis slurs. “Tired.”

“Louis.”

Louis' eyes widen a little bit, like he's forcing himself awake. Ben must be talking to him now.

“I can’t,” Louis repeats, mouth stumbling over the words. “Ben. I’m...I’m hurt bad. It’s bad.” He pauses and listens. “I can’t walk. You’ve got to send a car.” Ben talks for another moment, and a soft smile falls over Louis’ face. “Thanks. Harry will protect me.”

Harry’s stomach lurches and suddenly he feels terribly and sickeningly dizzy. He tightens his hands around the jacket, which Louis’ blood is soaking through quickly.

“Gonna sleep now,” Louis announces wearily. “Tired.”

“No,” Harry says desperately. “Stay awake. Come on. Tell me about…” He searches frantically for a topic. “Your family,” he ends up with. “Tell me about your family.”

Louis blinks. “My family.” A fresh pool of blood coats Harry’s hands. Sweat goes into his eye, and all he can think is _Ben is sending a car. They’ll be okay. They have to be._

“Yeah. Did you have siblings?”

The man coughs wetly, and Harry feels a pang in his chest. “Um. Fuck, man. This hurts.”

“I know,” Harry replies instinctively, and he's pretty sure it's true.

“I wanna talk about my mum,” Louis says suddenly. He’s so pale. His eyes are so clear. “Harry, can you...can you take my glasses off? Please?” God. Harry removes them as carefully as he possibly can and sets them to the side, and Louis’ eyes are even _clearer._ It feels wrong to see him so vulnerable. Louis isn’t supposed to look like this. His eyes aren’t supposed to be watering. His blood isn't supposed to be covering Harry's fingers.

“Tell me what she looks like,” Harry encourages, hands sore from keeping them pressed to the jacket, which is now completely wet.

“Looked,” Louis corrects. Harry wants to cry.

“She had brown hair. And everyone told me her eyes looked like mine.” He stares up at the ceiling but he’s not seeing, not from the looks of it. “She was the only one who knew.”

“What?” Harry gets out painfully, even though he already knows. “Knew what?”

Louis coughs some more. From this angle, in this light, he looks just a boy. Harry feels like he’s seeing Louis as what he is; a young man who's been shoved prematurely into the foreground of war. They’re a lot closer in age than it appears in this moment, and they don't seem all that different anymore.

“That I’m…” His face crumples, and Harry puts more pressure on his abdomen. Louis exhales and looks close to tears. “I’m like you.”

Harry feels so overheated. The man finally tilts his head so their eyes meet. His mind is moving a thousand miles a second and is he dreaming? Did Louis just confess his biggest secret? To an enemy, no less?

They’re not really enemies anymore. Harry shifts closer so their faces are aligned, and searches Louis’ gaze for _something. Anything._

“You...you know what I’m talking about? Right?”

Harry’s chest feels tight. Louis’ eyes...clear...flitting from his own eyes to somewhere underneath. It’s familiar.

It’s Z.

“Louis,” Harry warns halfheartedly. “You’re delirious.”

“I’m not,” Louis whispers. His face is so fucking magnetic and Harry hates it. He feels like he’s choking, like he can’t get enough air into his lungs, and the way Louis is looking at him makes his insides get so hot he might be on fire. “I promise.” He tilts his chin up, and Harry just keeps fucking inching closer despite everything his brain is telling him.

“Louis,” Harry repeats helplessly.

He never kissed anyone after Z. He used to think if he ever kissed anyone else, it wouldn’t be the same; like he wouldn’t be able to picture anyone other than Z in front of him.

He was wrong.

It’s barely a kiss. Their lips graze, and Harry’s chest burns and his stomach flutters, and his eyes close, and then Louis presses in a little more insistently, and Harry _tastes_ him, tastes his mouth and his breath and his pain, and then something clicks and Harry realizes what’s happening and he pulls away like he's been stung. When he looks down, Louis is unconscious.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

He doesn’t know what to do. There’s supposed to be a truck picking them up, but Louis has already lost so much blood, and it’s only so much longer he can keep up the pressure on Louis’ wound. His ear is still ringing, and the blood has dried on the side of his head.

He fumbles for Louis’ glasses and puts them on. “Ben? You there?”

There’s a crackle of static, and then Ben’s voice pipes up. “Harry. I’m here. How are things?”

“We, uh.” He can’t un-taste Louis’ lips. It lingers on his tongue, stronger than ever. “We’re not great, to be honest.”

“How’s Louis?”

“Um.” _I kissed him I kissed him I kissed him_. “Lost a lot of blood. We’re really close to the base. It’s not going to be long before they find us.”

“Don’t worry. The car will be there soon, I promise. I’m paging Jack in, okay? He’ll tell you what to do for Louis.”

Harry lets one hand release the jacket still pressed to Louis’ stomach and he wipes the sweat off his face, probably smearing blood all over himself in the process.

“Harry?” Jack’s voice pipes up after a moment of crackly silence. “How’s Louis?”

“Bleeding. A lot.”

“Is he conscious?”

“No.” Harry tightens the pressure on the jacket.

Jack swears. “Alright. You keeping pressure on the wound? Is it a cut or…?”

“Yeah. And I think it’s just a cut. I’m not sure.”

“Are you hurt?”

He takes a moment to consider it. “No,” he decides. He’s possibly injured, and he’s definitely pulled several muscles, but he doesn’t _hurt_  in quite the way Jack expects him to.

“Good. Try and wake Louis up, keep him aware. The truck is less than fifteen minutes away and Liam and Niall are coming too. They’ve been on their way since that first gunshot. Just hold on, okay?”

Everything is falling apart.

“Okay,” Harry says anyway.

 

*

 

He tries really hard to wake Louis up, but even by the time the truck arrives he’s been unsuccessful.

A single gunshot rings out, and then the door is kicked down, and Liam and Nick are suddenly standing in front of them, staring down at Louis’ still body and Harry’s face which is covered in Louis’ own blood and the two rifles abandoned on the floor.

“Shit,” Liam greets, dropping to the floor and shoving Harry’s hands away, replacing the bloodsoaked jacket with a folded towel. Nick walks over to Harry and tugs him to his feet, legs jelly underneath him. He almost falls over once he’s standing, like all the blood rushes back through his body at once.

“He...he’s bleeding,” Harry manages dumbly, but Nick is dragging him out of the shop and towards a shiny new pickup truck without a word. They walk past a lifeless body on the ground. Harry averts his eyes.

“I know,” Nick says kindly. “Get in the truck.” Nick helps him into the back and hands him a fresh bottle of water and a clean shirt, then goes back into the shop to help move Louis. Harry stares at the shirt for a moment, and then strips off his own. Clean shirt, on. Alright. He’s okay. Louis probably won’t be.

He looks down at his hands. Stained crimson. He’s kissed Louis on the mouth and Louis’ blood is all over him and he can only think of one other person he’s crossed these lines with. 

“Harry,” he hears Liam instruct him. “Move in. We’re coming.”

It’s when they enter his line of vision he gets a good look at Louis. In the light, he’s twice as pale, and there’s even more blood than Harry originally thought. It’s all down the front of his shirt and up his neck and somehow on his face as well.

Nick and Liam place Louis on the floor of the pickup gently. Harry brings his knees to his chest and curls himself against the wall. The two of them get in on Louis’ either side and Liam slaps the truck twice before it rumbles to a start.

Liam busies himself with Louis, first of all. He looks to still be bleeding but at a slower rate, now; Harry credits that to either the clotting or the fact there’s not much blood left to come out anyway. Regardless, Liam looks to know what he’s doing, which gives Harry a few blissful moments to tilt his head back and shut his eyes before Nick is tapping him on the shoulder and offering him an apple. 

“Give me like, five minutes,” Harry waves him off drowsily. _Don’t think about the kiss don’t think about the kiss._

“Goddamnit Harry, just eat it. It’s like 30 degrees and you’ve been out here for hours.”

Weakly, Harry accepts the fruit and takes a bite. He wills himself not to look over at where Liam is cutting off Louis’ shirt.

“We didn’t complete the mission, though,” he says around the fruit, staring straight ahead at the town whizzing past them.

“You did enough. Keep eating.”

He mindlessly takes another bite, and barely feels it when Nick begins prodding at his ear, checking for the source of the blood.

“It’s not mine.”

“Huh?”

“The blood. Well, some of it’s mine, but most of its Louis’.” He finally glances down at the body in front of him. “Is he gonna live?”

Liam looks at him, but his hands are still working on the wound, sliding through slick blood and plastering heaps of bandages on his abdomen. Wordlessly, Liam picks up another towel and wipes up the sweat that’s dripping down his neck.

“Yeah. Just...we just need to keep him alive for the next three hours.”

Three hours. That’s a long time.

“We’re going as fast as we can,” adds Liam. “You can rest, Harry. The mission doesn’t matter anymore.”

Harry leans his head against the cool metal of the pickup. Halfway through dozing off, he remembers they left Louis’ glasses behind.

 

*

 

It’s all chaos when they get back.

Louis is so pale he looks dead, but Liam keeps insisting he’s alive. Harry’s pretty doubtful. Nick won’t leave him the fuck alone, and keeps telling him he needs to be escorted to the infirmary. Of course, that’s only after a stretcher has carried Louis off the truck and through the main doors.

Nick ends up calling Niall out to help him coax Harry out of the truck and inside. Harry’s confused when he awakes, and his ear is back to ringing, and he’s quite literally covered in blood but can’t tell if it’s Louis’ or his own. He decides on both, and finally clambers off the pickup, a bigger sense of closure over him and comforted with Niall there.

There are a lot of people staring at them. How red his clothes are and how red his face is. He really wants to know if Louis is alright, but he’s also _terrified_ to know if Louis is alright.

When they reach the infirmary, it’s all business and bustle. Jack is, apparently, in the operating room with Louis, which means Harry gets to sit outside, absolutely filthy, until Louis is either dead or saved. Nick and Liam until Niall limps from the room, and they both look up expectantly.

“We don’t know,” Niall tells them sadly. “Harry, come with me. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He showers all the blood down the drain. He washes his hair. He cleans _everything._

Except for the taste of Louis in his mouth.

He doesn’t really want to clean that, anyway.

 

*

 

Jack comes out of the operating room more than an hour later, blood up to his elbows and a sickly pallor over his face. He looks exhausted.

But he’s smiling.

Niall, beside him, and Liam and Nick, across from him, immediately burst with a flood of questions, but for some reason Jack looks at Harry when he says it.

“He’s gonna live.”

Harry lets out a long exhale.

“I reckon you saved his life, mate,” Jack says, still directed at Harry. “He lost a shitload of blood. Almost half a gallon from what I saw, which is like, half the blood in his body. More or less. He should’ve died, but. He didn’t.”

He feels like crying with relief. Then the dread sets in.

“How long until he wakes up?” Niall asks. Harry’s rarely seen him look so upset.

“Depends. Only time will tell, really. Could be tonight, could be tomorrow. He’ll presumably be pretty out of it when he wakes up, though. Anyways. Harry, I’m gonna clean up and then I’ll take a look at you. Heard you got a bullet graze?"

“It’s not a big deal,” Harry says, though his mind is elsewhere. Specifically Louis’ reaction after the kiss.

“Still gotta check you out. It’s protocol.”

Nick and Liam leave, while Niall affirms he has to stay by Harry’s side in order to make sure he’s alright. Jack's examination is very simple and only takes a few minutes. Apparently the bullet _did_ in fact graze Harry's ear and had bled profusely for a while before sealing, so Jack cleans it, slathers some ointment on it, and prescribes a good night’s sleep before sending Harry on his merry way.

Recovery from a traumatic mission isn’t easy and he knows this, even though he was barely hurt. It’s even harder to get his usual self back knowing that Louis could wake up in the night and remember that they _kissed_. It wasn’t a half-ass either, it was a proper kiss and their lips touched and Harry can still taste Louis on his tongue.

He doesn’t know where this leaves them. If they’re friends or if they’re something else. Louis seemed to do everything to prove he hated Harry and now…

Well. He expects to be awake all night but he’s passed out before Nick and Liam even get to the room.

 

*

 

_Without a doubt, the worst mission he ever went on was the one that destroyed Niall’s knee and killed Ed._

_Part of what made it awful was knowing that Harry was the one who’d accidentally exposed them to the enemy. The other part was that not only had he managed to destroy Niall’s chances of ever walking properly again, but he had killed someone too. He’d killed one of his best friends. All while managing to avoid injury himself. He’d hurt Z pretty bad as well._

_He was surprised, to be honest, that Niall hadn’t been executed. If soldiers were fatally wounded, they didn’t serve a purpose anymore. Niall was always likeable though, and though he never really recovered he still went on missions. Harry used to admire him and his bravery. Now he realizes that, all along, Niall had no choice._

_If he could’ve chosen what came out of that mission, it would be to have himself fatally wounded or killed instead of Ed dying and Niall and Z being injured. Then he might be able to live with himself now._

 

*

 

The next few days are boring and uneventful.   
He wakes. He eats. He plays some piano. He asks Niall about Louis, and Niall’s answer is always _he isn’_ _t awake yet._

It’s painstaking and exhausting because he doesn’t really sleep well, either. Every time he closes his eyes all he can see are Louis’ fluttering eyelashes and Louis’ blood on his hands and Louis tilting his head up and Louis’ _lips._

This isn’t supposed to have happened.

The worst part of it all is how, undeniably, he liked it. He liked kissing Louis and he liked the feel of his lips and he _loved_ the taste of him. So much he can’t un-taste it. So much he feels like it’s consuming him every day, in every way.

He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to face Louis after this. How he’s supposed to just look him in the eye and go back to the way they were. Because after one taste of Louis he feels like he may never get enough.

He’s not allowed to do this. He can’t. If the both of them get exposed…

Anyway. His thoughts before Louis’ awakening are never very calming.

It happens exactly a week later. He’s changed and about to get into bed when he hears the pounding of footsteps thundering down the hallway. His ear still isn’t quite working properly but whoever’s running is being far too loud for this time of night. He’s about to stick his head out and tell them off when Liam comes bounding in through the doorway, panting.

“It’s Louis,” he says, and his eyes are bright and his face is flushed. “He’s awake.”

Nick springs to his feet, and Harry is up in less than a second. The three of them break into a run, and Harry wonders when he started caring so much about Louis.

He pins it on just being a decent person.

When they reach the infirmary, Jack is standing outside the room Louis is in, smiling. His face grows serious when Liam makes to open the door.

“He’s not feeling well at all,” he tells them. “Be quiet and don’t hug him or anything; I don’t want him to tear the stitches. Also...he’s a little bitter at being bedridden. Just be positive. Niall’s already in there.”

Nick slaps him on the back, grinning. “Don’t worry, mate. We love him.” Then Liam is pushing open the door and Harry catches sight of Louis for the first time.

Their eyes meet first. Louis is scowling, but when they look at each other, his face breaks into a crooked smile.

“Took you lads long enough.”

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> secrets are out.

“Jesus,” Liam says. “You scared the shit out of us.”

Louis’ face has a little more color than it did, but his lips are dry and cracked, and he looks terribly weak.

“Not really my fault,” he answers, and then coughs, and then grimaces. “Apparently I lost, like, half of my blood? Didn’t think that was possible, but alright.” The whole time he speaks, he doesn’t take his eyes off Harry. “What’d I miss in the time I was catching up on some well deserved sleep?”

Niall, at Louis’ bedside, clears his throat. He looks more cheerful than he’s been in a while. “Ben’s abandoned the mission. Says it’s not that important, anyway.”

Louis scoffs, and Harry rolls his eyes without thinking. Niall quirks his eyebrow at the two of them.

“Good to know I just got stabbed for something ‘not that important’.” He laughs, and winces again. “Fuck. Can someone stick their head out and ask Jack for some more drugs?”

Nick does so immediately, and Louis goes right back to staring at Harry. Harry folds his arms over his chest, the realization hitting him that he’s still in pajamas and wearing nothing on his feet but athletic socks.

“Jack says no more or you’ll overdose,” Nick relays back.

“Fucking piece of shit.”

“I heard that,” Jack calls from outside.

Liam pulls up a chair and takes a seat by Louis’ bed. “How you feeling?”

Louis sighs. “Other than the stab wound in my stomach, I’m alright. A little traumatized from those survivor’s teeth, but unscathed otherwise.”

They break into a conversation about hygiene and how survivors don’t really have the means or the time to worry about things like that, which means Harry gets to sit back and observe all of Louis’ mannerisms and how his injury has changed him. He still cracks jokes and smiles but there’s something behind his expression that screams how much pain he’s in.

“--Niall and Harry are a testament to that,” Liam is saying, and Harry looks up suddenly.

“Huh?”

Liam laughs. “Good hygiene.”

Niall shifts in his chair. “Not quite, mate.”

“Lads,” Louis says abruptly. “I’m tired. Might tuck in for the night.”

Everybody nods knowingly and they all get up to leave, bidding him a goodnight. Harry is halfway out the door when Louis speaks up again.

“Not you, Harry. Hold on a minute.”

Harry freezes. Niall gives him a small, encouraging smile and Liam waves at him and then they’ve all disappeared and the door is closing and Harry and Louis are alone.

His heart starts racing and his palms start sweating. He hopes with everything he is that Louis doesn’t remember the kiss, because he doesn’t think he could bear the humiliation.

“So,” Louis starts, and Harry chews the inside of his cheek. “I--”

“Look,” Harry interrupts. “I don’t want you to berate me because I feel like you think I’ve done something wrong, but I haven’t and I was just protecting--”

“Harry,” Louis says, and then laughs. Taken aback, Harry stares at him and again feels his face flush. He tends to do that a lot around Louis now. “I’m not gonna berate you, goddamnit. I’m not such a terrible person. I wanted to thank you.”

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again.

“You know, for saving my life and all that. Jack says I’d be dead without you.” Louis' voice softens. “Really. Fuck the mission, you know? You did great.”

Somehow, with Louis’ validation, Harry turns even more pink. He likes this side of Louis. Likes it a lot.

Maybe a little too much.

“Thank you,” Harry accepts, and his voice sounds far too small to be his own.

“Yeah,” Louis says, and they don’t talk for a moment, nor do they meet each other eyes.

“I have a question,” Harry blurts out, which surprises Louis, who nods.

“Hit me.”

“Um.” He mentally slaps himself for never thinking before he speaks. “Your glasses. They were lost on the mission. Do...do you still need them or…?”

Louis laughs a little. Harry wonders if the medication has made him looser. “No. I’ll have Ben replace them. They’re not for vision, they’re like. I dunno, helpers. They give us tasks and page in other leaders and tell us useless shit too, like the weather and information about the people we look at. Quite like the ones you were given, these are just less temporary, I guess.”

“So you don’t actually need them?” If he doesn’t need them, Harry is going to have a hell of a time trying not to get lost in his goddamn eyes.

“Nope. Me, I’ve got great vision. Does get annoying though.” He pauses, like he’s considering what to say next. “Like when I look at you, it tells me stuff.”

Harry swallows hard. “Like what?”

“Like how you’re from Manchester. And you’re twenty-three. And how you’re immune to the virus the survivors have, like most of us. And how you’re also mostly immune to the virus that killed half your camp.” Well, that’s not news to Harry. He figures not dying was the biggest sign that he was immune.

“It also tells me how you’re wanted by the government for helping destroy your camp. But how you’re now classified as a Rebel.”

Harry clears his throat, tucking his hands in his pockets. “That’s a lot of information.”

Louis lowers his voice. “It also tells me how you’re dangerous. Because you’re gay.”

Harry gets a chill down his spine. Is that what Louis sees every time he looks at Harry? Convict. Rebel. Dangerous. Gay. He wonders what his own glasses would say when he looked at Louis. If they’d be revealing as Louis says they are.

“It’s not a secret,” Harry says, and surprises himself with how steady his voice is. “Ben knows. Our squad knows.”

“What makes you think Ben knows?” Louis asks, raising his eyebrows.

Shit.

“Ben...Ben doesn’t know?” Harry bites his cheek hard enough to taste blood and feels his hands clench into fists. “What are you talking about?”

“What makes you think I _told_ him?”

Harry thought all his secrets were out. That Ben knew everything. He’s really been hiding this without knowing all along, all because of Louis. Which means if he had brought it up without realizing Ben didn’t know, he could’ve gotten himself killed.

“You…”

“I was protecting you,” Louis tells him firmly, as if it’s not up for debate. “I _am_ protecting you. You don’t understand, Harry.”

“I understand,” Harry snaps. “I fucking understand, alright? More than you do.”

Louis’ eyes narrow like they always do, face creasing into a deep scowl. Harry’s shocked he doesn’t have wrinkles at this point, even at twenty-six. “Don’t fucking assume shit about me. If there’s anything I know from living in this world it’s that secrets like that get you killed. Do you remember what I told you, that first day?”

Harry’s fists tighten and for the first time, boiling hot anger bubbles up ferociously in the pit of his stomach.

“I’m not stupid.” Suddenly, he doesn’t care that Louis is wounded and in pain, even though it might mean he’s a terrible person. “I’ve seen the kids at my camp killed. The only reason I wasn’t killed by the leadership was because they want me for my skills.”

“Why are you so upset?” Louis shoots back incredulously. “Even the Rebellion knowing your secret is dangerous. I’ve been doing you a favor all this time.”

“My secrets aren’t yours to keep.”

“They are when your secrets could get me killed too.”

“Tom knew,” Harry argues, not bothering to ask what this means. “Tom and Liam and Nick, and Niall, they all know. I’m not dead yet.”

Louis swears. “They don’t matter, not in the scheme of things. Don’t you get it? If Ben found out…” He sighs and closes his eyes, as if recollecting himself. Harry doubts he even remembers revealing his own ‘secret’. “It’s not safe to be out. Trust me.”

“And how would you know?” Harry insults venomously, waiting to see if Louis will outright say it or not. “How should I trust you?”

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“But you do. It’s the least you owe me for saving your life.”

After a moment of Louis staring at him, he grows tired of the silence.

“Fine. Then I’ll go. I just have one more question.”

Louis still doesn’t say anything which Harry accepts as ‘keep going’.

“If you had my journal the whole time, why didn’t Ben insist to read it?”

Visibly, the man clenches his jaw, either from pain or annoyance. “I can be very persuasive.”

Without saying goodnight or goodbye, Harry leaves the room.

 

*

 

He doesn’t think he’ll feel safe for a long time, so he stops trying to.

Deep down, he probably knows that Ben isn’t a great person. He’s proven himself as such by killing lots and lots of innocent people, and yes, he probably has a terrible past, but from what Niall’s told Harry of Ben’s fabulous tech school education, Harry doesn't believe that too much. So no, he decides not to reveal his giant secret simply out of spite.

It can pend for a little longer, right? He won’t actually explode?

Well, a little longer turns into a lot longer, and not much changes aside from the weather, which turns from humid to dry, and before he knows it, it’s nearly summer, and he’s getting better and better at his job, and he’s getting more likeable, and Ben is actually trusting him to do shit now. They don’t let him on high-risk missions anymore because he’s ‘too valuable’, which he’s tired of hearing, but gets to go on supply runs with Niall as driver and Nick and Liam as colleagues, which he enjoys. Fionn, a little later on, joins their squad as well. He starts living in their cabin with them and he warms up to the place.

After some time, Harry grows to really like Fionn. He’s young, but he’s clever, and he seems genuine, which Harry appreciates. They become something close to friends, and they’re both pleased to keep it that way.

Everything is going as well as expected. Especially Louis’ recovery.

Harry tried to stay out of Louis’ business in the immediate couple weeks following his injury, but he’s quickly found that Louis is a big topic of news amongst literally everybody. Every time Harry sits down to eat, somebody is asking him how Louis is, as if he actually knows. The horrible part is that he actually _does_ know because it’s all Niall talks about as well. _Louis took three steps today_ , and _Louis fed himself today._ As if Harry cares. If Louis wants to be an asshole to him, then he’ll be an asshole right back.

Forget the whole saving Louis’ life thing.

Frankly, he’s quite sick of it.

And then there’s the kiss.

He tells himself that it didn’t mean anything. That Louis was just delirious and doesn’t remember it, which he thinks is true. But sometimes he’ll dream about tasting Louis’ lips, and his tongue, and then tasting more of him, and then he’ll wake up with his dick hard in his sweatpants.

It’s not a thing. He really prays it’s not a thing, and he swears it’s not on purpose. But in comparison to everything, his life isn’t actually terrible right now. The camps are slowly coming down--they haven’t sent him back to a camp, either, thank god--thanks to numerous skilled and unemotional squads Ben is utilizing. The government, in this, is weakening as well, but they have no idea where the Rebellion is located at all.

So he’s not safe, he’s never safe, but he’s not fearful for his life as much as he has been. He just calmly exists for a while.

In this time, he kind of completely forgets about the blonde Scottish man Jack, aka walking mystery. There’s not really a reason for them to remember each other.

It happens when he’s walking to dinner from recreation, which, for him, has become tinkering with the piano until he grows bored. The familiar sound of a cane hitting the floor comes up behind him, and when he turns, Niall is there.

“Hi, H,” he greets, but his voice is terse. “I’ve got to talk to you for a moment.”

Niall leads him to a side room that looks to be a closet full of cleaning supplies, making sure the door is closed. This is when Harry gets nervous, because Niall has never been one for secrecy.

“What’s up?” Harry asks, frowning.

“Do you remember the guy at the Cambridge camp who interrogated you?” Niall says hurriedly.

“...Yes?”

“Okay, so you know he’s been living here, right?”

“Yeah. Haven’t seen him around at all, though.” Harry figures he’s been in some closed off location where the rest of the soldiers have gone, separated from the Rebels.

“Ben’s been trying to get him to talk for months, because he was like, super high up at that camp. Like, practically ran the place. Ben will explain more to you later, but he’s finally opened up.” Niall looks so in shock Harry’s certain something bad has happened.

“What did he say?”

“It’s…” Niall exhales and runs his fingers through his hair. The blonde is fresh, like he’s just gone and bleached it. “It’s complicated. But it has to do with us. I can’t really explain, I just...wanted to prepare you. Because it’s fucking insane.”

“Insane how?”

“It’s like, this crazy ass dystopian conspiracy. I don’t know whether or not to believe it, but Ben figures if me and you talk to him, we might be able to understand what he’s going on about.”

There’s a lot of information to process. Regardless, he follows Niall out of the closet, away from the cafeteria, and back through the winding hallways.

Niall takes him through a corridor he’s never seen before, past a door with a security guard positioned outside. As they walk through, the tiled floor turns to concrete, the panelled walls turn to stone, and the lights get dimmer. It takes him a moment to realize why it looks so familiar, and that’s because it’s the place he was held when he was first brought to the Rebellion.

His palms begin to sweat, and his pulse quickens, but Niall lays a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I just…yeah. I dunno.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I was kept here as well. They were terrified of me, never had to deal with a military soldier before.” It doesn’t make Harry feel any better, but he smiles weakly.

He knows immediately which door they’re supposed to enter, as there are two guards positioned outside. They’re waved through and Niall nods in thanks.

“This is where they’re keeping him?” Harry says unsurely, but then they’re in the room and Ben is looking at them and Louis is sat next to him in a wheelchair and Scottish Jack Harry had found himself simultaneously crushing on and despising is sitting behind a desk with his hands cuffed.

“What the…”

“Hi, boys. Jack, this is Niall Horan and Harry Styles.”

Jack already knows who Harry is, from the looks of it.

His eyes are bloodshot and he has bruises lining his hollow cheekbones. It’s been an awfully long time since they’ve seen each other, and now, standing here, Harry feels sickeningly powerful, while he stares at the man in his chair.

“You remember Harry, right?” Ben says, stepping up to the desk and crossing his arms. His voice makes Harry’s blood run cold. “I’m sure you do. You interrogated him, and paralyzed him. He’s one of our best soldiers.

“And Niall,” Ben continues. “He’s been working for us for a long time. Both of them are ex-soldiers. They worked for your army. Can you repeat to them what you said to me?”

Harry glances at Louis, who beckons the two of them to go stand by him. Somehow, Harry forgets their argument. It’s been a while since he’s seen the man out of bed.

Vaguely, Harry wonders how long Jack has been in solitude for, as he was out and about immediately following his ‘rescue’.

“I’ll tell them,” Jack says, voice startlingly low and raw, “But that doesn’t change the truth. And that’s that there’s nothing any of us can do to reverse the effects.”

Effects?

“We won’t know unless you tell us,” Ben says sternly. “I highly recommend you listen to what I instruct you to do.”

Jack sniffs thickly, and turns his face to look directly at Harry. “You want to know? Alright. It ain’t pretty. But you asked.”

“Tell us,” Niall demands.

“That serum they give you when you enter camp? The burning one?” Right, of course he knows how it feels. He’s the one who distributes such serums. “They’re not for nothing. The government--they have a plan.” He nods at Niall and Harry. “You two? You’re caught right in the middle of it so long as you have the serum inside of you.”

Niall and Harry exchange anxious glances. He gets the urge to probe the scars at the bottom of his spine.

“What else do you know?” Louis says. Harry’s forgotten he was there,

“I only worked for them. I don’t know shit. Only that if you have that stuff inside you, you’re not a person anymore. Just one of their experiments.”

Ben tenses visibly.

“Experiments,” Harry echoes slowly.

“That’s all I can tell you.” Scottish Jack splays his fingers out in a display of vulnerability. “That’s all I know.”

“Bullshit,” Niall dismisses easily. “The leaders at our camp were government workers themselves. Of course you know everything; else they wouldn’t have hired you.”

“Things have changed. Harry knows.”

He does.

“Harry?” Ben inquires expectantly.

“Just from what Fionn told me,” Harry says. “That...there was a change in leadership.”

“I’m curious,” Louis pipes up from his place closer to the floor. It feels strange having to look so far down at him. “How’d a Brit like you end up working for the coup?”

Jack clearly clenches his jaw. “I was hired,” he replies through gritted teeth. “Just like Niall was hired for Harry’s squad and Harry was hired for the top squad.”

“How did you--” Niall starts to say, confused.

“Well. That’s one of the few things I do know. Who doesn’t know about the fire? Harry started everything, after all.”

_Harry started everything, after all._

He can’t say he started everything, because he didn’t. But he knows his actions made a difference, and the difference pinned a target on his head, and the target has made it so he’ll never truly be safe, not as long as the government is around.

“Alright,” Ben says, voice terse. “Niall, Harry, Louis, out with me.” He doesn’t bother telling Jack not to try anything, unlike Louis did with Harry on his first day. He’s probably just that untrustworthy. Louis gets out of the room with some difficulty, but refuses Ben’s assistance.

“Guys.” The door closes and they move down the hallway. “There’s a lot to go over, I know. But I say we prioritize figuring out the serum first. What do you say?”

“What does figuring out the serum involve?” Harry says cautiously. All the talk of needles makes him nauseous.

“Blood tests, for starters. We can monitor your sleep and your exercise, but…” Ben scratches his chin. “Unfortunately, the man’s right. There’s not much we can do, but we’ll see. We’ll see.”

“Okay,” Niall and Harry say at the same time. It’s not really a question, though. If Ben wants to take blood, he’ll take blood.

Louis doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes again.

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jack figures it out.

**june**

  


And so Ben takes blood.

It starts out as just vials. Niall and Harry sit side by side on a hard bench while Jack sticks needles into their elbows; it’s always right before dinner, so they can replenish themselves and then have a good night’s sleep.

This happens every day for the next week. With every day that passes, Jack explains he needs more. So he collects more blood with Ben’s affirmation, and is unsuccessful. Then, Ben requests they donate a bag of blood each in order to save time, and they don’t really have a choice.

That’s another week later. Jack’s eyes look sad when the needle pokes in.  

Niall and Harry are silent the whole time, barely conversing, and only to inquire how the other is feeling every now and then. It’s always ‘fine’, or ‘okay’. When Niall’s bag is halfway filled, he falls asleep on Harry’s shoulder. Harry can practically feel the energy being pulled from his body, and not long after, he too dozes off.

Louis is the one to wake them both when their bags are filled. He and Harry haven’t spoken in a while, and Louis is still wheelchair bound as well, which makes it harder to get around. His expression is grim when Harry opens his eyes groggily.

“You guys are done,” he tells them, and Niall jumps awake.

“The bags are full?” Niall yawns. 

Standing up once Jack has taken out the needle is unexpected. Harry gets a head rush and almost topples over, right into Louis’ lap. 

“Easy,” Jack warns. “You’ll be lightheaded for a bit. You two, Niall,” he adds when Niall tries to stand as well and wobbles. “Be careful. You sure you don’t want your dinner to be brought here?”

“No thanks,” Harry declines, blinking a few times until his vision returns. “We’re good, right, Niall?”

Niall stumbles to the side and smacks his head on the wall.

“Okay,” Jack muses, mouth twitching up. “I’m paging Liam. Harry, sit down.”

Not bothering to put up a fight, Harry collapses back onto his bench, tugging Niall down with him. Louis’ face is blurry, but Harry is certain he rolls his eyes before  wheeling himself away. It doesn’t take long for Liam to arrive with two identical trays of food balanced on his forearms; Harry’s also pretty sure he was out of it for a good majority of the wait.

“Eat up, boys,” Liam says, placing the trays into their laps. A bit of water sloshes out of the glass.

“It’s like looking after children,” Harry hears Louis say, and turns his eyes up from his food to glare at the man as cruelly as he possibly can.

Liam sighs. “Louis,” he scolds half-heartedly. “You remember what it was like when you lost all that blood.”

“Actually,” Louis replies stubbornly, “I don’t. Because I was unconscious.”

“Exactly.” Liam pinches the bridge of his nose and Harry tucks in to his meal. “Just. Be nice?”

Louis scoffs and leaves the room. His wheel gets caught on the door frame and he curses. Harry tries to find some sympathy somewhere deep inside, but only feels the horrible anger he felt when he learned he’d been lied to.

Niall falls asleep on his shoulder again when he finishes his meal. It’s weirdly comforting.

 

*

 

A few days later, Jack says he needs more.

“Not blood,” he clarifies sympathetically when Harry and Niall both put their bruised inner elbows on display. “Tissue. Something more.”

It’s not as painful as Harry fears it’ll be, the biopsy. Jack puts some numbing agent on that doesn’t really do much before using a scalpel to collect a bit of flesh from his upper arm. Niall winces as well, but they put up with it, and Jack looks genuinely sorry when he puts the tiny pieces of skin into little vials and seals them tightly.

“Will this do anything?” Harry asks, deflated.

“I hope so,” the doctor replies.

 

*

 

Life gets terribly boring.

Not that it wasn’t already. But Harry hates waiting, and that’s literally all he and Niall have been doing.

There’s no mission for him; Ben still doesn’t trust he’s capable. He hears word that Louis is back on his feet, but gets no visual to prove it. At least Niall gets work to do, whether it’s teaching or helping to plan some kind of supply run. Harry cleans guns sometimes and organizes endless boxes of ammunition.

There’s only one thing for him to do, really. And that’s to make friends.

It starts with Fionn offering to introduce Harry to some of his mates. Harry didn’t know he had mates--he never seemed like he particularly enjoyed the boys in his squad at camp. Admittedly, Harry’s forgot them too; Barry, Oli, and...the other one?

Well, regardless of names, Fionn invites him to eat dinner with them one night. They’re surprised to see him there, and they all look a little older and a lot more mature. The thing they’re most shocked by is Harry’s new haircut.

As it turns out, when they’re not at camp, they’re actually quite nice. They crack jokes and talk about books they’ve read, and though Harry really doesn’t seem like the kind of person they’d like, they accept him as one of their own.

“What do you all make of the Rebellion?” he asks them, shifting uncomfortably when they’ve moved on from talking about books to talking about girls.

Barry, the Irish one, shrugs. “It’s alright. There’s more freedom here, than at camp.”

Oli, who Harry didn’t like at first but finds quite clever now, laughs. “There’s not freedom anywhere, man. Life is better here though. If it wasn’t, I’d have found another camp by now.”

Everybody chuckles at that, except for Harry and Fionn. It hits him very suddenly what life is for these boys. It’s evident they don’t have family left; if they do, there’s no way to find them. They don’t seem to care who’s side they’re working for, so long as their lives are okay.

Harry wishes it was that easy for him.

And so Harry eats with them for the next few days. Niall doesn’t notice, Liam and Nick are so busy they don’t even go to the cafeteria. He takes the extra time to heal. The skin of his ear scabs over and his muscles relax a bit.

He breathes. Even though the memories of Louis’ wound, Louis’ glazed over eyes, Louis’ lips, won’t leave him alone, not even while he sleeps. It’s like they’re haunting him. Not to mention the constant pestering fear that always sits heavy on his shoulders now. He thought he’d moved on from hating Louis, but…

He can’t hate Louis. He wants to desperately, but he can’t.

Coincidentally, he’s sat at the table across from Barry and Oli and next to Fionn when a screech of static rings out through the cafeteria. At first, he thinks the hum in his ears is back, but after a moment of looking around, everybody seems to have the same perplexed reaction.

There’s a deafening crackle, and then a woman’s voice speaks up, booming through the room at a volume far too loud for his comfort.

“Niall Horan and Harry Styles to the infirmary please. Niall Horan and Harry Styles.”

Of course, Niall happens to be absent from the cafeteria when they’re called, which means every single head shamelessly turns to look at Harry.

He scratches at his neck in embarrassment, sliding out the bench and ducking his head while he strides towards the cafeteria exit. He can feel every single pair of eyes following him.

Practically breaking into a run the second he’s free in the empty corridor, he almost slams in to Niall, who’s emerging from the music room with a frown on his face.

“What do you reckon it’s about?” Harry asks him.

“Dunno,” he shrugs, and Harry slows his pace so they’re walking side by side. “Hopefully they found something, with the whole blood thing. Else it was for nothing.”

The infirmary is dead silent. The side-doors are all open, as if Jack has been traveling in between them often. There’s no secretary behind the front desk. It’s like the whole place has gone and died in the time they’ve been away.

“Jack,” Niall calls tentatively.

A grunt comes from the room to their left, distinctly Jack sounding.

“What’s going on?” Harry asks the back of the man’s head. He’s hunched over the counter, peering into a microscope.

Jack sighs shakily. “Shit. Guys. You aren’t gonna fucking believe this.”

“What?” Niall presses.

“He was right.”

“What? Who?”

“Jack,” the doctor says, turning around. There are bags under his eyes as if he hasn’t slept for weeks and he looks about ready to tug all his hair out. “The serum they gave you...fuck. Take a seat, boys.”

Niall and Harry look around. There aren’t any chairs.

“Or...stand. It doesn’t matter. Just. I don’t really know how to tell you this.”

“You seem...distressed,” Niall observes, concerned.

Jack laughs bitterly. “Yeah. You will be too, once you hear this. Try not to freak out. It may come as a shock. That biopsy I took? I went muscle-deep. You didn’t realize. You thought I just took skin samples. But it was muscle.”

“Muscle,” Harry repeats slowly. “It didn’t feel like you went that deep?”

“Exactly,” Jack says. “The reason you didn’t feel it is because of that serum they gave you. Remember? The one that burns?”

“I try to forget,” Niall states grimly.

“Okay, well, I took a look at the biopsies, and it’s hard to really see it unless I’m looking at the muscles, like, in your bodies. But, well. The structure of your muscle spindles, the things that essentially tell your brain when your muscles are hurt, they’re...completely different from mine. I took a sample from myself, and...just. Take a look.”

He steps back so they can step up to view through the microscope lens, but something in Harry convinces him not to. Niall limps up weakly and peers in.

“Shit,” he exclaims not a moment after he’s taken a look. “Which one’s mine?”

“The one on the left,” Jack tells him tiredly. He leans against a wall. Harry’s never seen him so exhausted.

“Shit,” Niall repeats. “They’re that different? What does that mean?”

Curiosity gets the better of Harry, and he steps up to take a look. His eyes take a minute to adjust, but when they do, the differences are clear. Jack’s muscle biopsy looks clean and healthy--not that Harry actually knows what a healthy muscle looks like, but he can assume--whereas his and Niall’s are distorted beyond recognition.

“I don’t understand.” He shakes his head in confusion. “How…?”

“The serum. I don’t know how, or what it even is, but something in it has fucking destroyed your muscle spindles. Like, I don’t even know how you’re still able to move. I thought something like this could paralyze someone.”

“Paralyze,” Harry echoes, squinting. “They did paralyze us. They did it before the serum went in, but after they injected us, we couldn’t move.”

“He’s right,” Niall adds. “Something in it made my whole body fuckin’ seize up.”

Jack exhales, scratching at the stubble on his chin. “Fuck. I still don’t know how this works, but it has, and...I know why neither of you felt me take the muscle biopsy. The numbing agent works on skin, but doesn’t even crack the surface of the muscle. You didn’t feel it because there was nothing to tell your brain your muscles were literally being sliced into.”

“I’m confused,” Niall announces.

“Alright. Okay.” Jack stops suddenly, as if he’s trying to sort through his thoughts and catch his breath. “Basically,” he begins, slower now, “The composition of the fibers in your muscle spindles are distorted. They’re sensors that tell your brain if your muscles are overstretched, and then your pain receptors are activated. So if you pull a muscle, it’s supposed to hurt. If your muscle spindles don’t function, there’s nothing to signal your pain receptors, which means...you can’t feel the pain.”

“What do you mean we can’t feel the pain?” Niall questions, evidently trying to hide the tremor in his voice.

“I mean...you can’t feel the pain. If I were to stick a knife through your muscle, it wouldn’t hurt. Well, your skin would hurt, but it wouldn’t _hurt_. You'd be fine.”

“That’s impossible,” Harry says. “When my ear was grazed--”

“Not a muscle. Cartilage. Skin.”

“But when Fionn punched me in the face--”

“He bruised the bone. That’s what hurt. Not any muscles.”

Harry tries to think of more past injuries. “What about getting shot?”

Jack sighs. “Think about it. Your skin was pierced, you were bleeding out, from what I know you’ve nicked a couple organs before. But pain can put someone unconscious, and do you remember ever falling unconscious due to pain?”

Straining, Harry finally shakes his head. When he was shot in the chest on that mission, he’d stayed conscious for the entire drive back. On every occasion he’s been shot, really, he’d never passed out.

“That’s because it was never bad enough. And because you never fell unconscious, you didn’t die. That’s how you survived being shot in the chest.”

Harry stands there for a moment, gaping at the doctor. Niall is biting his fingernails and staring at the wall.

“What does this mean for us?” Niall gets out.

“I don’t know,” Jack admits, looking utterly miserable. “I wish I did, but I have no idea what the government is trying to accomplish in making it harder for you to experience pain. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Do they want to create, like, the perfect soldiers?” Niall tries. “That would make sense, right?”

“That could risk critical injury. What if a soldier tears a muscle and drags the whole squad down? They won’t even realize they’re hurt; they’ll just stop working.”

“What if we have torn muscles?” says Niall, blood draining from his face. “What if we don’t even realize it?”

“No way,” Harry denies. “We would feel it. Wouldn’t we?”

“I don’t know,” Jack says again. “I can give you both check-ups, but I don’t know. This is way beyond anything I’ve ever learned about.” He laughs bitterly. “I never even got my degree.”

“We need to figure out what’s next,” Harry says firmly, attempting to take the lead as Jack looks like he might drop dead and Niall is so pale Harry wouldn’t be surprised if he collapsed too. “We tell Ben, right? He’ll know what to do.”

“You didn’t know?” Jack deadpans. “Ben’s away. In Glasgow, meeting with the other Rebels. Louis’ in charge while he’s gone.”

Harry has absolutely no idea how he hasn’t heard of this. “Okay, well, when will he be back?”

“Tomorrow. It doesn’t matter, anyways. There’s no way to reverse this; Jack was right. It doesn’t change anything either.”

“But Ben could know something?” Harry says desperately, words coming out more like a question. “He might be able to help. Or something. We can’t always be this way.”

He feels like throwing up. Like there’s a thing inside him that shouldn’t be. It’s not like he’s opposed to the idea of not feeling pain; it just makes him less normal than he already is. And it’s clear now that the government has not only changed him emotionally, it’s changed him physically. It’s altered his literal biology. He’s never really going to be his own person. Neither is Niall. They belong to the government.

“We should tell Louis,” Niall says shakily. “He needs to know, anyway. And now we have an excuse not to kill blondie. He was right. Louis should know that, too.”

“Okay,” Jack nods. “Okay. I’ll go get Louis.” He leaves the room.

“H.” Niall meets his eyes. “What does this mean?”

“I don’t know,” Harry sighs, and it's the truth.

When Jack returns with Louis in tow, he looks more green than he did before but slightly less upset. Louis, on his feet for the first time in a while, walks a little hunched over but manages to remain upright. If it were Harry, after getting shot, he would’ve been recovered for weeks by now.

Fuck. There really has been something wrong with him all this time.

“So,” Louis says grumpily. “I hear there’s been some kind of breakthrough.”

Harry tries not to look at him. He can’t tell if he’s forgiven Louis or not, but decides to tolerate him for the time being. There are bigger things at stake, anyway.

“No shit,” Niall responds. “Apparently our muscles don’t feel pain because the serum changed our anatomy.”

“Biology,” Jack corrects. “It’s--it’s biology. And it’s more complex than that.”

Niall throws his hands up in exasperation. “How so? Our muscle...spindles? Right? Basically they’re fucked, which means we’re fucked. Simple as that.”

Louis opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then blinks.

“Christ, Niall,” Harry mumbles.

“So, if I’m correct,” Louis starts slowly, leaning back against the wall, “Whatever the serum was at camp messed with how you feel pain?”

“Basically,” says Jack. “They also heal remarkably quickly. It’s like the cells regenerate at a pace faster than ours. I have no idea how they do this either. It’s like the government has created this substance that turns them into superhumans.”

Niall and Harry look at each other.

“I’m sorry but I don’t really understand how this is a bad thing,” Louis points out. “The government gave it to you but we can use it to our advantage now, right? I mean, shit, you two are great in combat, and knowing this? Listen. You can run distances we couldn’t even crack. I say we embrace this.” For good measure, he shrugs nonchalantly.

Harry finally works up the courage to glare at him fiercely. “You don’t get it. We didn’t ask for this.”

“And I didn’t ask for every single country to fall apart. But it’s where we’re at.”

“But...but…what...” Niall stammers. “What do we _do_?”

Louis shrugs again, and it forces another surge of anger from Harry’s chest. “Nothing. We shouldn’t let Jack out, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go finish my dinner.” Louis pushes off from the wall and stalks out, leaving the three of them staring blankly at where he was just standing.

“Oh, fuck me,” Harry mutters, and follows after his trail, sprinting to catch up.

“Hey,” he calls after Louis’ form staggering down the hallway away from the infirmary. The man turns his head, visibly rolls his eyes, and resumes his journey. “Louis. Do you think this is funny or something?” No reply. “I’m serious. Me and Niall, we didn’t ask for this. You’ve got to know some way to fix it. Reverse it, or change it.”

Still, Louis says nothing, just huffs out a breath and turns a corner.

“Okay, just because you had a lovely childhood doesn’t mean--”

The man whips around so quickly Harry nearly jumps out of his skin, backing into the wall before he can stop himself. The look on Louis’ face is furious.

“You don’t know shit about my childhood,” Louis growls. Harry’s back is pressed to the wall and there’s no room for him to get away as Louis keeps crowding him, pushing closer and closer until their faces are inches apart. “If I hear you make another goddamn assumption of me I’ll--”

“You’ll what?” Harry whispers boldly. “Give away my secret? Two can play this game, Louis Tomlinson.”

It’s an empty threat. Harry’s sure Louis knows that as well. But Louis wants to threaten him? Harry will threaten right back.

Louis grits his teeth and looks like he’s about to say something more, but stops himself.

“Watch your mouth,” he says finally, and turns away, disembarking back down the hallway. Harry, sweating, shaking with anger, and with a lot more to say balanced on the tip of his tongue, watches the back of his head until it disappears.

  



	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ben is gone, and louis and harry channel their stress into something new.

Ben will be able to help.

It’s what Niall and Jack keep saying. Ben will know exactly how to handle this. So they wait the next day for his return.

He doesn’t return. Not that morning, not that afternoon, and by nightfall, Harry, Niall, Louis, and Jack are both sat in an empty office all biting their fingernails and neglecting their dinners.

“I’m sure he’s just caught up with something,” Jack reassures in a weak effort to console them.

But none of them sleep that night. They lie in bed wide awake and waiting for Ben’s return, because supposedly Ben is never late for anything, and this is very unusual. For the first time, Harry feels himself worry that something awful has happened to the man.

They’re all like zombies the next morning; staggering around aimlessly, bags under their eyes, exhausted but unable to get any rest. Harry wonders if Louis has realized this plan isn’t exactly foolproof. If he knows how stupid it is to not have any means to contact the  _leader_ of the Rebellion.

But they keep waiting. The whole of the next day goes by. And Ben doesn’t arrive.

“What if--” Niall starts to say that evening, but Louis cuts him off with a glare so piercing he immediately falls silent.

Harry really needs him to get a new fucking pair of glasses.

It’s past midnight when Jack bids goodnight, yawning off about how he can’t keep his eyes open. Louis, who’s been flipping through a novel tiredly, doesn’t even try and stop him. Then Niall falls asleep in his chair, head lolling back and mouth half open, and Harry and Louis might as well be alone together.

Harry, for some dumb reason, figured his best pastime would be folding the Rebel soldier’s laundry; the young teenagers in the laundry room were so kind Harry felt too guilty just walking away, so he’d volunteered to take a crate. It’s not entertaining or fun but it’s given him something to do, and it means he doesn’t have to communicate with Louis. At all.

That kind of goes down the drain when he runs out of laundry to fold. He’s put all of it into a neat pile, and he doesn’t want to go to bed because he knows he won’t sleep a wink, so he's opted for fiddling with the items on Louis' desk in complete silence.

Louis sneezes, which startles Niall awake.

“Is he here?” Niall blurts out instantly, nearly falling out of his chair and wiping drool from the side of his face.

“No,” Harry replies.

“Oh.” Niall looks disappointed, and then pushes himself to his feet. “Well then, lads, I’m going to bed. Don’t be up too late. Work tomorrow.” Harry gets a pat on the shoulder, and Niall leaves.

“Alright,” Harry says awkwardly after a moment of silence. “I guess I’ll go to bed too.” He gets up from his chair.

Louis closes his book.

“What?” Harry asks blankly after a minute of the Louis staring, while he’s poised at the door.

“Just…” Louis hesitates. “Was wondering if you were still pissed at me.” There’s something in his tone that gives off an almost plead for forgiveness. It surprises Harry and he can’t figure out if he’s satisfied or not.

“Well, I’m not exactly happy with you right now,” Harry answers hotly, and without thinking.

“So we’re back to this.” Louis sighs and sits up a little straighter. “Why can’t you believe I was trying to protect you?” Harry wants to say something snarky, but in truth, he can’t think of anything. Louis trying to protect him in the first place seems very unlike _Louis_.

“Because you’re not supposed to. I’m not yours to protect.”

Standing up, Louis takes a few steps towards him and folds his arms. “I run this place. That makes it my job to protect you.”

Harry scowls. Louis takes another step closer.

“It’s not like you aren’t keeping other secrets,” he continues quietly. Harry presses his back against the door and feels his palms start to sweat. “It’s not like you haven’t been keeping this one for as long as you can remember.”

“You’re one to talk,” Harry says right back, just as inaudible.

Louis narrows his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just that.” He’s close enough that Harry can see how clear his eyes are and how soft his hair looks and how his stubble has grown since their mission. “You seem to know a lot about keeping secrets.”

The expression on Louis’ face shifts from anger to something unreadable, something vulnerable.

Harry tilts his head, furrowing his eyebrows. “You don’t remember what you told me?”

Louis visibly swallows. Harry watches his Adam’s apple bob. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Noticing how he bites his lip and clenches his hands into fists, Harry assumes he's lying.

“But you do,” Harry says carefully. “Right? And we’re a lot similar than you say we are.” He’s the one to move closer now, so their chests are almost touching. He has no idea what drives him to do it, but he gets that burning in his insides like he did when they kissed. That magnetic force tugging at his stomach. He’s still angry at Louis. But...he’s less angry than he was before.

He kind of wants to kiss him again. Wants to _taste_ him again. Even with his sweaty hands and his heart pounding through his chest and his whole body on fire. Harry definitely would not be opposed to kissing him again.

He doesn’t know what that means.

Louis looks up at him. Slowly, he un-crosses his arms. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he whispers, and Harry is pleased to hear he sounds just as breathless as Harry feels.

“You’re right,” Harry says, and connects their lips.

He doesn’t know what he’s thinking because he doesn’t think. He gets why he was scolded so much for it; not thinking before he opened his mouth when he was a child, thinking too much at camp. Right now, right here, he thinks everything and yet he can’t seem to think anything at all, can’t seem to _feel_ anything at all. Just his fiery, squelching insides and Louis’ lips and Louis’ scruff rubbing at his chin.

Louis presses in closer, so their bodies really are touching now, and he’s _on fire he’s on fire._ He takes a big breath in through his nose and squeezes his eyes tightly shut.

Without realizing it, Louis has managed to push Harry against the wall, even with his limited height. He’s stronger than he looks, and he prods at Harry’s mouth with his tongue almost tentatively, like he’s nervous he’s going too far.

_Harry doesn’t know what it means._

He opens his mouth wider and fists Louis’ shirt in his hands.

Louis tastes really, really good. Something Harry can’t describe. And he can’t breathe. Like, all the breath is being sucked from his body and Louis wraps his fingers around the back of his neck and _squeezes_ and Harry hasn’t ever felt this good. Not even with Z. It never felt quite like this. Now, he can kiss a boy and not worry if anyone sees.

It’s quite likely the most amazing feeling in the world.

Louis pulls away first. His eyes aren’t as focused as they always are but they’re so fucking blue Harry thinks he’s going to die, and his lips are _red_ and shiny because--fuck. Yeah. That’s Harry’s own spit.

He feels like he bursts into flames.

Harry rests his forehead against Louis’ and they share breath for a moment. It feels affectionate but not _too_ affectionate. Because it doesn't mean anything. It’s not supposed to mean anything.

“I’m sorry,” Louis whispers, breath hitting Harry's face. “For...you know. Not telling you that I hadn’t told Ben.”

“It’s okay,” Harry responds automatically. He doesn’t have to think about that either.

“Um. You’ve got...a death grip on my shirt.”

“Fuck,” Harry says and releases the fabric. Louis’ shirt is wrinkled now and his hair is askew and somehow, Harry takes pride in that he was the one to get him looking so disheveled.

Taking a small step back, Louis slides his hand through his hair, which only makes it worse. “You should…” He glances down, and Harry watches him hide a smirk.

Right. Okay. Harry has hard-on quite blatantly bulging through the fabric of his loose pants. He pulls his shirt down over his crotch and wants to slap himself, feeling his face go beet red.

“You should probably go,” Louis finishes.

“Yeah,” Harry gets out, mortified, and opens the door, willing himself not to look back at Louis’ face while he closes the door behind him. Harry’s fairly certain he hears a chuckle.

Harry makes a point of walking halfway around the base to get to the private showers. He strips, turns the water to as cold as he possibly can tolerate, and doesn’t move for twenty minutes.

He doesn’t know what this means.

 

*

 

In the next two days, it becomes a thing.

Ben still hasn’t returned, but Harry doesn’t really mind because he has other things to worry about. A blue-eyed Rebel is one of them. Actually, one blue-eyed Rebel is all of them.

There are very few moments when the two of them are alone together. Niall seems to like that they’re not at each other’s throats anymore, so he favors going to bed slightly earlier so the two of them can ‘chat’.

They don’t chat.

At first, it’s ginger and tentative. They’ll be across from each other in Louis’ office, and Niall will go to bed, and they’ll wait a moment. Then, careful and unsure and painfully gentle, Louis will stand up, Harry will get that burning in his lungs, and Louis will kiss him. Like he’s experimenting.

In those two days, they try not to touch too much. That feels a little too _friendly_ , and Harry thinks they both might still be wary of the other. But the third day comes. Basically, Niall takes a little longer than usual to go to bed, which leaves the two of them kind of antsy. When the door finally closes, Louis only waits a couple of seconds before he’s stalking over to where Harry’s sitting, planting himself in Harry’s lap, grabbing his face with both hands, and kissing him so hard all the breath is knocked from his body.

This is...new. Harry feels so hot he can’t even process what’s happening. That night is very touchy-feely. For the first time, Harry gets his hands below Louis’ shoulders; he squeezes his hips as Louis licks into his mouth and…

Well. He tries not to think about it. That this isn’t really what barely-friends do with each other. But if it feels good and they both enjoy it, is it so wrong?

That’s what Harry’s contemplating while Louis sucks on his tongue, and then Louis bites his lower lip and he forgets everything for a while.

The fourth day, Harry decides to go for it and stop being so hesitant. Niall leaves, there are about fifteen seconds of nothing, and then Harry stands up, tugs Louis up from his chair by his hand--his _hand_ \--and presses him against the wall before kissing him.

There’s a short break where Harry pulls away to breathe, and then Louis lays a hands on his shoulder to stop him. He feels his heart drop. Shit. He’s pushed too far, hasn’t he? He’s ruined everything. The one good thing they had between each other.

“Wait,” Louis says. “Why are we doing this?”

Harry blinks at him.

“I...I thought you wanted to.”

“I do!” Louis laughs quickly. His laugh is really beautiful. Harry wants to keep kissing him, but he’s still talking. “I really do. Shit, I really like this. But...we aren’t doing this romantically.”

Harry almost chokes.

“Um. I didn’t think so? You…” His eyes widen. “Do you want to?”

“No,” Louis says, affronted. “I was just making sure. That you didn’t think we were...being weird about it.”

“I figured we were doing it because it feels good,” Harry tells him sheepishly.

Louis smiles at him. It’s like, a proper smile, and his eyes get crinkly and there’s something fond about it.

“We are,” he says, and then they’re back to kissing.

That night, Louis’ hands go below Harry’s waist. He really likes that.

 

*

 

Admittedly, Harry forgets about the issue of Ben for a bit.

For the first time in ages, there’s something good going for him. Louis doesn’t seem to hate him anymore; they’re kissing and they’re making each other feel good and no feelings have to come from it at all. Now that they’ve both acknowledged that, it’s easier to just do what feels nice.

But the issue of Ben was never resolved. Which means it’s not over.

Louis, on the fifth day, is done waiting. Harry forgets sometimes he has a Rebellion to run, when they’re not snogging senselessly.

He’s angry from the start of the day, and that’s obvious. He’s grumpy with Jack and Niall and he refuses to eat, saying he has to plan out a supplies run, so he kicks everyone out of his office and Harry is on his own.

It feels awful, even though it’s nothing personal. It feels like _rejection._ He’s grown so used to being with Louis that being away from him is gut-wrenching. He hates it. How much he likes what he and Louis do and he hates how upset he is about not being let in.

Harry plans to kiss him especially hard tonight to make him feel better.

Part of him doesn’t even want Ben to return. Things have gotten a lot better since he left, and it’s probable that he’s just decided to spend an extra week in Glasgow to sort things out. He’ll tell this to Louis tonight, too. Maybe after they’ve kissed.

Over lunch, Niall points his fork at Harry and raises an eyebrow. “Hey. By the way, I’ve been forgetting to ask--what’s going on with you and Louis?”

Harry’s mouth goes dry.

“What are you talking about?” he says too quickly to be subtle.

Niall gives him a funny look in return. “You two seem to have warmed up to each other.”

Right. Well, it was bound to be brought up at some point. The two went from hating each other’s guts to waiting to be left alone together; that’s definitely a little suspicious. Or a lot suspicious.

Harry opens his mouth, still not entirely sure what to say, but luckily Liam chooses this moment to burst into a coughing fit and Niall starts laughing while simultaneously patting him on the back.

“Went down the wrong way,” Liam splutters, gesturing to his glass of water and clearing his throat loudly.

Nodding sympathetically, Harry’s grateful for not having to answer.

 

*

 

He’s walking alone to the gym that afternoon when an alarm goes off.

The first thing he does is stop and look around. It’s startlingly alike to the alarm that went off when he’d escaped his cell that first week with the Rebellion. There’s no movement; nobody in the hallway with him, no noise, just the deafening screech.

Anxious, he quickens his pace, this time taking the turn to Louis’ office. After one knock the door is opening, and Louis is standing there, looking so pale Harry has to shake himself.

“What is that?” he asks in confusion, having to raise his voice over the alarm.

“Fuck,” Louis replies, and pushes past him, sprinting around the corner.

Harry stands there for a moment just taking in the shock, and then figures he should go after the man to try and figure out what’s going on.

That’s when the hallways start filling up. And everything gets loud.

Heads stick out from doorways, yelling at each other and asking what’s going on. Harry spots Louis’ shrinking figure still running, waving his arms and hissing at people to get back inside.

“Louis!” Harry shouts after him, and without realizing, he’s running too. “What’s happening?”

It doesn’t take long for him to catch up, and when he does, Louis’ finger is pressed to his ear, and he’s yelling about getting everybody contained.

“What’s happening?” Harry repeats loudly. Louis stops suddenly and braces an arm over Harry’s chest. Harry coughs like the breath has been knocked out of him.

“Harry,” he directs firmly. “I need you to find Niall. Tell him there’s been a security breach. I need you both to put the kids on lockdown.”

Harry swallows and shakes his head. “What are you talking about?”

“Just do what I say,” Louis instructs him, and then takes off. Harry notices a lump in his back pocket and a handle sticking out; he’s brought his pistol. It’s so loud and everyone’s yelling and the alarm has given him a terrible headache but he has a pit in his stomach, like something really awful is about to happen. There’s really nothing for him to do but back down the hallway and try and find Niall.

It’s not as difficult as he expects it to be. Niall is shrieking at the top of his lungs for people to lock their doors and push their dressers in front of them. This is when the real fear sinks in. Have they been found? Has Harry endangered them? Has the government finally found him? He gets that consuming feeling of terror in his chest. They must be here to kill him.

Niall’s face turns towards him and melts into relief. “Harry, thank fuck. Where’s Louis?”

“He’s gone somewhere,” Harry manages to say, completely lost. “I don’t know what’s going on. He says we need to...collect the kids? And...put them on lockdown?”

“Shit. Alright. Follow me.” He turns down the corridor and Harry has to practically run after him.

“What’s going on?” Harry presses impatiently. “Nobody’s telling me anything.”

“Work now, talk later.” Niall increases his pace and the sound of his cane hitting the floor gets faster. “We need to get to the kids.”

Kids. Right. Real children. Harry's pace falters. 

“How many are there?” he asks nervously. The alarm screeches away.

“About thirty,” Niall says. “Three to twelve year olds.” They reach a door armed by two guards. When they recognize Niall, they immediately let them both through. “They won’t know who you are,” he continues, and the sound of the alarm fades as they squeeze their way down a new narrow hallway he’s never seen before. “They might be a bit nervous, so just stay calm.” The further they get, Harry begins to notice telltale signs of children. There are pictures taped to the wall and crayons askew and he thinks he can hear young, small voices.

“What if…” Harry starts, but then they’ve stopped in front of a windowless door.

“What if what?” Niall says, pausing his hand on the doorknob. Laughter sounds from the other side of the door.

Harry shakes his head. “What’s going on?”

“No time.” Niall opens the door.

There are...a lot of children. They all immediately pause whatever they’ve been doing to look up at the two of them; first, they spot Niall, and their faces light up, and then they see Harry behind him, and tilt their heads curiously.

“Harry!” cries a small voice from the corner, and he looks down to see May, the girl from the music party all those months ago. She runs up on clumsy little legs and wraps her thin arms around Harry's waist, grinning up at him.

“Hi, May,” he greets awkwardly, patting her head gently. It’s strange to him, interacting with children. He’s afraid he’ll say something wrong.

“Alright kiddos, listen up,” announces Niall. May steps back and reaches up to hold Harry’s hand with her tiny one. He wants to laugh and cry at the same time. “Remember all those lockdown drills we’ve done? We’re gonna have another one right now. This is Harry. He’s gonna help us.”

“Where’s Louis?” pipes up a child in the back.

“He’s busy. Now, everyone off the rug. Like we’ve practiced.” The kids scatter, along with May, who releases his hand. Niall taps him on the shoulder. “There’s a trapdoor under the carpet.”

The rug is heavy and takes a while to move; it releases a hefty amount of dust, which makes Harry sneeze. A couple of the kids giggle. He feels sort of pleased with himself.

The trapdoor is made of thick wood and the latch is steel, but it’s discreet enough to not show through the carpet at all. Niall walks over to a desk and pulls a key out from one of the drawers.

Here, the alarm is so faint it can barely be heard. Harry gets an inkling that something not-so good is going on out there. He still has no idea what’s going on, but that pit of fear remains in his stomach.

Niall unlocks the latch and lifts the door up. Harry peers down. The further down, the darker it gets, and there’s only a rickety ladder descending into the darkness. “Quickly, kiddos,” Niall calls, and undaunted, the children start filing down the ladder.

“What’s down there?” Harry queries.

“Sewers,” Niall clarifies. “Long abandoned, so a bunch of us fixed them up as a shelter in case something happened.”

“Something like what?”

Niall opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, all the lights flicker off, submerging the classroom in pitch, consuming black.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the rebellion is raided.

There are shrieks from the ladder, and something rattles, as if somebody’s about to fall. Niall curses, then apologizes for cursing to no one, and then a light switches on. He’s holding a torch in his hand that’s come out of nowhere, and he shines it down the passage leading underground.

“James,” says Niall to one of the older boys. “Take the light. I want you to find the switch down there and turn it on, okay? Just like the drills.”

The young boy, frightfully pale, nods quickly, taking the torch and waiting until he’s the last one to climb down the ladder.

“Remember,” Niall calls down the chute. “Just like we’ve practiced! And don't make a sound.”

“Are you and Harry coming with us?” exclaims May’s voice from somewhere below.

“I’ll be down in a moment.” Niall turns to Harry, who can barely see his own hand in front of his face. Slowly, a red light flickers on above the door, and when Niall opens it tentatively, the whole hallway is filled with the red light as well.

“Fuck’s sake,” Harry hisses. “What’s happening?”

For the first time, the look Niall gives him is one of fear. The shadows over his face make him look gaunt; Harry can only imagine how he looks himself.

“The alarm,” Niall tells him quietly, “Means the main door has been...compromised.”

“Compromised?”

“Broken in.”

Harry stares at him. “Broken…”

“Broken in. And I need you to stay with the children while I go and help Louis.”

Harry splutters. “Not on that leg. You stay with them. _I’ll_ go help Louis.” Without waiting for an answer, he shoves through the door, but Niall pulls him back quickly.

“You don’t know what you’re going into,” he warns. “If this really is a raid, you need to shoot to kill. There are children we need to protect.”

“Don’t worry,” Harry insists. Niall’s forehead creases with worry and, as if a last minute decision, pulls him into a hug.

“Goddamnit, H. Be careful or I’ll kill you.”

Harry smiles weakly at him and takes off down the hallway.

He’s already through the door when he realizes he doesn’t have a weapon.

 

*

 

The guards are all gone. 

Silence is wrapped around the whole of the base. There’s no sign to point him in any direction; just the awful sound of nothing, which is more terrifying than if he was able to hear anything. The lights are crimson and seem like a horrifying omen to what’s coming.

It’s fitting. A couple hallways down, he hears a gunshot, followed by several more in quick succession.

He turns towards the armory. He’s technically not allowed to take anything from there, but figures this is a good enough reason to break that rule. Ben’s not here to tell him not to. Deciding against a rifle, he loads a pistol as he walks, forcing himself to slow so he has energy for whatever this is. The lights have begun to give him a headache.

Then, he hears a scream.

That’s when all rational thought flies out the window and the only thing running through his mind is _LouisLouisLouisLouisLouis._

He knows he’s getting closer to the source of the commotion. He’s probably being reckless, but he can tell exactly which corner will take him to wherever the fight’s happening, and when he turns it slowly, he sees Louis’ easily recognizable figure peeking round the edge of another corridor and firing a round in his gun. There are five other people who’ve accompanied him, two of which are evidently Liam and Nick. One of them has a head of curly hair, and Harry places her as Leigh. A couple heads turn as he approaches.

“What’s going on?” he asks Liam over the rapid sound of gunfire.

“I can’t tell who they are.” Liam strains his neck looking around the corner and pulls back suddenly as a bullet lands in the wall behind them. “Whether they’re survivors or government...shit, Lou!” He’s cut off when another bullet narrowly misses the side of Louis’ head.

That’s when Louis catches sight of Harry. He doesn’t look happy.

“The fuck are you doing here?” he snaps as he reloads.

“I’m gonna help,” Harry explains easily, and slithers around Liam to get a good look at what’s going on.

He counts five men at the end of the long hallway. Their guns are raised and they don’t seem to have any intention of letting up.

For a split second, he doesn’t think he can do this. Then he remembers the thirty children holed up in a sewer waiting for safety to come, and how he needs to protect them.

He doesn’t even get the chance to lift his weapon before Louis is smacking his hand away. Louis moves from his position to stand in front of Harry and glare fiercely. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he seethes. “Go back to the classroom and stay there.”

“I can _help_ ,” Harry shoots back, though secretly he doubts himself. “Why won’t you let me help?”

“Lads, we’ve got bigger problems,” Nick interrupts. “Stay or leave, no matter, but we need all hands on deck.”

Harry huffs, satisfied, and goes to stick his head around the corner, but Louis pushes him back harshly. “You idiot. If these are government soldiers, and they see you, we’re fucked. Don’t you get that? Just stay back. Get to safety.” Louis shoves him again for good measure.

“Best do what he says,” Liam tells him, pausing to reload. “We can take them, Harry. Don’t worry.”

They can’t. Not with the simple arms they have. The men they’re fighting look visibly stronger and their weapons more durable, with their infrequent breaks for reloading and restocking. Harry thinks for a moment. He could listen to Louis and Liam. But the classroom is a while away, and he’s here now.

He’s taken more people before. He’ll easily be able to sneak up behind them and at least get them distracted and preoccupied. Then Louis can decide what he wants to do with them.

Harry sighs, glares at Louis one last time, and leaves. He knows exactly what route to take. It’ll be easy, and he’s positive that though everyone will be upset at first, they’ll thank him for it later. What good are his skills if he doesn’t put them to use?

Harry weaves his way through the little side passages nobody thinks he remembers. The enemies won’t be able to find their way around this place. It only takes a moment for him to get close enough to know he’s practically reached the opposite side.

Fairly certain the other lads won’t shoot him by accident, it’s surprisingly easy to sneak up on the men. Harry figures the only reason Louis and the others haven’t managed to take them down yet is because of how relentless they are.

 _This will definitely help_ , Harry thinks confidently, and one enemy head turns to see him, but he’s forcing them against the wall before they can shoot him.

The men’s reflexes are slow, and it takes them a considerable amount of time for them to react. Harry kicks legs out from underneath bodies and throws punches without looking for the damage and the gunfire from the other side slows to a stop when he finally renders the last enemy unconscious.

“ _What the fuck_ ?” shouts a voice that is blatantly Louis’. “ _Are you fucking kidding me_?”

Harry sighs, and starts his trek down the long corridor. “I told you I could help,” he calls back. Vaguely, he thinks he hears Liam and Nick start laughing helplessly. “You should’ve just--”

A last gunshot rings out, cutting him off.

It takes him a moment to realize where it comes from.

It takes him another moment to realize there’s a searing pain in his shoulder.

It takes him yet _another_ moment to realize he’s on the floor.

They’re screaming his name, but his ears start ringing before the sound registers. There are another three gunshots, and he hears the thump of bodies hit the ground heavily. He feels his shirt get wet. The red light fades for a moment--he blinks, and it shifts back to fluorescent neon.

Someone’s kneeling over him. They’re screaming. It’s Louis. His eyes aren’t so blue in this light; they’re watering, and he’s screaming so loud it’s making Harry’s head hurt.

“It’s okay,” Harry croaks. “I’m okay. Just a flesh wound.” The real pain hasn’t really sunk in yet. Maybe that’s just the whole muscle thing.

Louis curses loudly. “Nick! What do we do?”

“Lift him,” Nick replies, all business. Harry feels his eyes flutter. Really, nothing’s happened except for the fact he’s suddenly exhausted and his shoulder is throbbing. “Come on.” Somebody grabs a hold of his ankles and somebody else latches their hands under his arms. “Three, two, one.” They pull, and then the pain sets in.

“You fucking idiot,” Louis shouts at him in distress. The ceiling moves above him so he figures they’re moving now. “I told you not to do it. I told you to go back.”

He really wants to come up with a snippy retort, but his tongue seems to be working in slow motion.

“Lou,” somebody says. Harry thinks it’s Liam. “We need somebody to review the damage. You’ve gotta go back and check it out and see how--”

“Dammit, Liam,” growls Louis. “I’ve got other priorities at the moment.” Harry feels like this would be a perfect time to grin smugly, but then someone pushes through a door and the pain becomes a bit more real and he has to try really hard not to puke all over himself.  

“Alright. Put him down in three, two…” He’s placed rather ungracefully on a hard plastic table, and when he blinks, he can see Jack looking down at him.

“Can somebody fix these fucking lights?” someone yells. Harry coughs.

“--this dumbass went around the fucking base and got himself shot,” Louis is saying. It’s all rather chaotic. Jack begins cutting off his t-shirt with a pair of red-handled scissors. They look like the ones Harry used to cut his hair.

Abruptly, the light changes from red to white. It takes a while for his eyes to adjust, so he closes them instead.

“Just a pinch, Harry,” Jack tells him, and he feels the pressure of a needle in his upper arm. Louis is still shouting. Jack tells him shut the fuck up. Harry kind of wants to laugh at that.

Blissfully and within seconds, his entire torso up to his neck goes numb. He sighs with relief and lets his muscles relax.

“I want everyone out,” Jack demands. Louis huffs indignantly. “Jesus, you can stay. Everyone else out. Go on.” There’s the sound of feet shuffling and then everything falls quiet. Harry’s in the mood to drop off now, with the pain gone and the light back to normal, but holds onto the thread for a moment longer.

“Open your eyes for me Harry,” Jack says.

“Do I have to?” he asks rawly.

“Well, I suppose not. I am going to need you to sit up though, just for a second.”

Harry exhales sadly. The doctor helps him by bracing an arm around his back, and there’s a bit of a sting before he’s laying back down again.

“Bullet went clean through, thank god. Does it hurt?”

“Nope,” Harry replies, feeling a little drunk.

“Good. You can go to sleep now. We’ll be here.”

It’s the only affirmation he needs.

 

*

 

His sleep is dreamless, for the first time in a long one.

Harry doesn’t think he’s particularly smart, probably because things like these keep happening to him. They all seem like great ideas in his head, but always end up being terrible and ending drastically wrong. This isn’t the first time; there was Niall’s knee, and getting shot in the chest, and of course...what happened to the camp.

He can’t really blame Louis for being angry with him. But he wishes he wasn’t so that Harry could kiss him again.

When Harry’s eyes drift open, there’s only a dull throb in his shoulder. He’s confused for a moment before memories of the previous night begin to flood back into his brain. Raid. Niall. Classroom. Getting shot. He turns his head to the side, and sees Louis sat in one of the awful hard chairs, head leant back against the wall. He’s asleep.

It’s hard not to stare while he looks so peaceful. So young. Harry hasn’t really noticed how properly beautiful he is before now.

Then it hits him, what he’s just thought. He doesn’t know how they got here. How they went from hating each other to swapping spit on the daily. He can’t really find it in himself to care that they probably shouldn’t keep this up.

There’s never been a single person other than Z he felt comfortable enough around to kiss, or even be affectionate towards. He always knew he’d have his heart broken. That’s exactly what happened, anyway. Him and Z were never really meant to be, but he doesn’t regret what they had. He just lives with it.

Regardless, he and Louis aren’t anything more than colleagues. They won’t _become_ anything more than colleagues. He’s sure of that. They _can’t_ become anything more. Harry’s not ready for another betrayal.

He still wants to kiss Louis, though.

“Louis,” he says, voice hoarse from underuse. The man doesn’t move.

“Louis,” he repeats, louder, and Louis shifts in his chair before lifting his head from the wall and blinking at him tiredly.

“Jesus Christ,” Louis murmurs and wipes the side of his face. “You scared me half to death, Harry.”

“Sorry,” Harry answers, without really meaning it. He goes to push himself into a sitting position before then realizing he’s shirtless, torso bare under Louis' watchful eyes.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Louis warns. Automatically, a pain sears through Harry’s shoulder and he winces. “Told you.”

“I saved your asses,” Harry says, laying back down and waiting for the pain to fade. “Some gratitude would be nice.”

“You could’ve died,” Louis bursts out incredulously. “If that raider had had better aim you would be dead. We’ve lost Ben already.”

“Lost Ben?” Harry squints in confusion. “How do we know he’s dead?”

“Not dead, you idiot.” Louis’ been calling him that a lot. “Lost. Gone. We’ve no idea where he is and how to locate him. Soon as you’re healed, we all need to meet.”

“Where’s Niall?”

“Went to get lunch. He got tired sitting here and waiting for you to wake up so I took over. He’s not too happy with you at the moment.”

Harry sighs, then flinches when his shoulder stings. He wonders if he’s feeling the normal amount of pain for this kind of injury, or if everything is lessened. He watches Louis stand up and straighten his clothes.

“I’ll go get Jack,” he says, and goes to leave.

“Wait,” Harry stops him quickly. “Don’t go yet.” He feels his pulse quicken. “Stay for a moment?”

Louis hesitates and begins to look nervous. “Why?”

“I…” Harry tries to sit up again, forcing himself to ignore the pain. Louis takes a step closer as if he’s trying to help. “I’m okay.” Louis frowns and walks over to his bedside to look at the dressing on his shoulder.

“Fucking hell,” he sighs. “You’re bleeding again. I’ve got to go get Jack.”

“No,” Harry says. “Just…” He furrows his eyebrows. “Can...can I kiss you?”

The expression on Louis’ face softens. “Harry…” he starts. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Oh.” His heart stings with the rejection and humiliation. “Why not?”

“Because you’re on a lot of meds.” His voice is gentle. It’s nice. Harry wants to kiss him even more now. “If we do this both of us need to be fully sober.”

“I am sober,” he replies. “The meds have worn off.” He pauses. “Please.”

Louis glances back at the door unsurely, and then back at Harry’s lips, like he’s trying to convince himself it’s a good idea. “Please,” Harry repeats.

“One kiss.” Louis finally caves, and moves closer. It’s softer than anything they’ve ever done. Louis cups Harry’s chin in his hand and leans in slowly, and when their lips touch Harry sighs contentedly and the pain fades a little. The tenderness of it makes Harry’s legs feel like jelly.

It ends far too soon. Louis pulls back and doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Harry whispers, then again just to show how much it means.

“Thank you.”

 

*

 

They establish soon enough that Ben isn’t coming back.

The men who survived the raid turn out to be survivors. How they managed to get through security, Louis says he doesn’t know, but they haven’t lost any Rebels and the raiders are being kept in guarded cells until Louis decides their sentence.

After private interrogation, Louis and Niall conclude the survivors weren’t the ones to take Ben. How they do this, Harry doesn’t want to know.

Their next step is identifying whether or not Ben could still be with the Glasgow Rebellion. They figure Ben would be back by now if he was actually still with them, so they rule that out. Louis says there are no survivors in Glasgow as the Rebellion is made up of all of them, and the epidemic had already wiped everyone else out--Ben, apparently, has already done his research.

So he hasn’t been taken by survivors. He isn’t with the Glasgow Rebellion, and he hasn’t been taken by any survivors in surrounding areas or else they would’ve been contacted by Ben’s driver.

There’s one other possibility, but nobody wants to be the one to say it.

Harry, meanwhile, takes the time to recover. He gets the stitches removed from his shoulder after a mere five days; Jack says he’s healed already. It hurts on occasion, but not terribly. It’s healed enough for him to get back to the gym now.

He tries to ignore the fact that he and Louis haven’t kissed since that day in the infirmary. The man’s been so busy he rarely leaves his office. It feels like a hollowness in Harry’s chest, but he can’t stop to think about what this means, and what they are. It might break him.

There’s a part of him that wants more. Even though it’d be the worst thing to do to himself.

“Everything is falling apart,” Louis says in hopeless frustration at the start of their third meeting. (Harry is on the leadership board now, as it seems). “Ben is fucking gone. I can’t run this place by myself. How am I supposed to take over all his plans?”

“Lou,” Niall comforts half-heartedly. “You’re really good at this. If Ben doesn’t come back--”

“He has to.” Louis puts his head in his hands. “He has to come back. We’re fucked if he doesn’t.”

They sit in silence for a moment; everybody pretends to be thinking, but Harry can tell the same thing is flashing through all of their minds.

“He could’ve gotten sick?” Jack suggests. “It’s likely he caught something--a strain of the virus, or something--and they had to quarantine him for a bit. We just have to wait a bit longer.”

Harry sighs, finally having grown tired of skipping around the problem. “Everyone’s gonna hate me, but...I think we all know what’s really happened to him. We’re all just afraid to admit it.”

Louis looks at him angrily. “We’ve considered all possibilities,” he fumes.

“Okay, but we haven’t,” Harry says. “Can we just face the fact that he’s probably been taken by the government? They have a building in Cardiff. Ben and his driver most likely got picked up along the way and taken.” Niall shakes his head looking anguished. “I’m sorry. But. That’s just it.”

“We don’t know that,” Jack says in a weak defense. “He...he could be sick.”

“He’s been living in London for years and hasn’t caught anything?” Harry shakes his head. “It doesn’t make sense. Ben’s dropped off the face of the earth and we all know it’s because the government has him.”

“Lou?” Jack asks, hoping for some kind of reassurance, but instead Louis sighs, and then nods.

“He’s right.”

Jack looks at all of them incredulously. “You’re joking.”

“No,” says Louis. “Unfortunately, Harry’s right.” It’s the first time this week he’s showed anything remotely close to affection. “We’ve ruled out everything else, and if we really want to find Ben, we’ll have to venture elsewhere.”

“Fionn might be able to give us some information,” Harry suggests. “Niall, you’re good with computers. It’ll be easy to find Ben in their system if--”

“I’m not talking about hacking, Harry,” Louis corrects.

“We need to go to the government building in Cardiff.”

  



	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> louis helps harry.

“What?”

Louis opens a drawer in his desk and pulls out a cigarette and a light. It startles Harry. It’s been so long since he’s seen or smelled one. He remembers when it was his currency.

Lighting the cigarette, Louis takes a long drag. It accentuates his jawline, and his throat bobs, light bouncing off his cheekbones. Harry swallows, and then remembers what Louis has just said.

_We need to go to the government building in Cardiff._

Harry splutters uselessly. “You want to go to the government building. You want _us_ to storm the government building. Where the government is _located_.”

“Hear me out,” Louis says. He takes another puff. “If Ben’s been taken by the government, he’ll be at Cardiff. The main headquarters is in Dublin, which means they’d have to ferry over. That’s time consuming and not worth it. Cardiff only houses a fraction of government officials. They obviously have a shitload of security but if we combine our forces we can easily defeat them.”

“Do you realize how fucking dangerous this is?” Jack bursts out. “Sure, we have a lot of people, but they have weapons we can’t even dream of getting our hands on. We’ll be massacred.”

“Not if we do it right,” Louis says. “If we can find out Ben’s staying with them, great. But we have every means to believe he _is_. And if he isn’t, we exterminate the government officials.”

“Actually, I’m not completely opposed to this,” Niall butts in, sitting up straighter. “We’ve done a lot in bringing down the camps and the excess of dangerous survivors. Even if Ben were here, our next step would be to tackle Cardiff. If we can save Ben, great. If we can infiltrate the building there, that’s great too. Still a massive step in our ultimate goal.”

“This is ridiculous,” Harry protests. “I’m not going to a government building. I’m _not_. It’s suicide."

Louis scowls at him. “Since when have you actually regarded a dangerous situation with any care?”

Harry feels his blood boil.

“I _saved_ your ass and didn’t even get any thanks for it.”

“You got yourself shot.”

“I’m not dead, am I?”

“Not _yet_.”

“Guys,” Jack says tiredly. “Stop it. We have other things to worry about. I say we see what we can do with Niall’s tech skills. If not, then we can talk about a plan for Cardiff.” The doctor looks at Harry sorrowfully. “I think they’re right, Harry. I’m sorry.”

“No!” Harry retorts. “They’re more powerful than you realize. There’s no point.”

“They ruined our lives, H,” Niall tells him, not unkindly. “Don’t you want to get back at them for that?”

On some level, they ruined his life. They also gave him a best friend and a lover and more good memories than he even has of his sister.

“I can’t. I can’t let them see me.” There’s the horrible clench of fear at his insides and he feels like throwing up again. “Niall,” he pleads. “Back me up on this.”

Niall’s eyes fill with pity.

“I’m sorry. I know what they did to you was worse than what they did to me. But...I really think we should do this.”

He realizes, now, that Niall doesn’t know everything.

Niall doesn’t know about the violations or the violence. Niall doesn’t know about the threats or the sleepless nights or the nightmares. Niall hasn’t seen him curled up on the floor of the bathrooms, coiled with pain. Niall didn’t fall head over heels in love with the same person who’d developed a detailed plan of how to betray him. Niall doesn’t know why Harry can’t face the same people who destroyed him.

And he’s not positive he’ll see anyone he knows. Anyone who took part in that personal destruction. But he doubts there were no survivors of the fire who worked with the government. Harry’s spent so long trying to forget their faces…

 _“You’re gay,”_ taunts the man’s voice, somewhere rooted deep in him. _“You probably liked it.”_

“Harry,” says Niall, which comes as a shock, because Niall _never_ calls him Harry. “Are...are you okay?”

Coming out of his slight trance, he notices his hands are shaking and he’s clenched them into fists. His eyes are watery--tears? They can’t be.

Louis’ fingers are frozen, cigarette halfway to his mouth. Instead of looking angry or worried, he just looks completely blank with shock.

“Give us a moment,” Louis says finally, voice sounding strange, to Niall and Jack.

“But--” Niall begins to protest, but Louis must give him a telling look, because he nods and gets up. The two leave. Harry waits until he hears the door shut to release his tears.

It kind of all floods out of him at once. Everything kind of stops hurting when he lets go and cries; he forgets Louis’ there until he feels a comforting hand squeeze his good shoulder. He can’t even be bothered to feel embarrassed, even though Louis doesn’t understand. Louis doesn’t even know why he’s crying.

“It’s alright,” Louis soothes instead of judging him. “I’m sorry.”

Harry's shoulders shake. Louis stays by his side. When he’s cried all his tears, he realizes the extent to which he’s released his emotions; his face is wet and blotchy and his nose is running and he looks a right mess. Of course, his first instinct is to apologize.

“Don’t,” Louis tells him firmly before he can even get the word out. Harry can already feel how his eyes have puffed up. “Don’t say that. Please.”

Louis’ fingers twist gently in Harry's hair. It’s more than platonic.

Harry doesn’t care.

“It’s just…” He clears his throat, trying to make it sounds less thick. “I’ve seen shit. You know? Well. You don’t. But...you don’t want to. Trust me.”

“I’m sorry,” Louis says again. “I’m...fuck. You shouldn’t have to deal with any of this.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” Louis backs up to look him square in the eye. “They fucked you up. And I’m really fucking sorry. I can’t lie to you and say I understand but...we were both fucked up. By different people. And we didn’t deserve it.”

Harry has no idea what happened to Louis.

“You lost people, didn’t you,” he says. It’s not a question.

“We’ve all lost people,” Louis says.

They stay like that for a while.

 

*

 

And so Niall gets to work.

His days are spent in the computer lab, typing away and trying to crack some way to get through the government system. He takes infrequent breaks to eat and use the toilet but other than that, he’s stuck behind a screen all day. He doesn’t complain about it, either. When Harry asks, Niall says it’s nice to be needed.

Because Niall is so busy, there’s nobody to do his jobs. Louis sends a general call out to some of the younger Rebel-soldiers-in-training to help fill in the empty openings in tending to the armory and restocking supplies in different areas of the base.

There is, of course, one more job that hasn’t been filled. Harry thinks about it a lot, especially since being inside the classroom and seeing all those young faces. He has no idea who Louis will ask to take on the role of the children’s teacher. He kind of puts all his energy towards hoping it’s not him.

Well. Louis approaches him when he’s on his way from the gym to the cafeteria for dinner. He’s wearing his usual basketball shorts and terrible, filthy trainers. He can’t help but feel like the look Louis gives him is judgmental and a little bit repulsed.

“What’s up?” Harry asks, secretly hoping he’ll be invited into Louis’ office. They haven’t done anything together in a while. He hates that he misses it.

“Got a question for you,” Louis says instead. “Walk with me?”

Taken aback, Harry nods, but instead of embarking towards the offices area, Louis begins the walk in the same direction where Harry was originally headed to--the cafeteria. It’s strange. Louis usually eats in his office.

“So?” Harry encourages, when Louis doesn’t speak for a moment.

“So,” Louis replies. “You know how Niall is so busy he barely has time to take a shit?”

Harry snorts out a laugh, which amuses Louis, who tilts his head and gives him a small smile. “Yeah. I know.”

“Well, I’m afraid I need someone to fill one of his jobs.” Fuck. Harry’s side grin fades instantly. “He teaches from Wednesdays to Saturdays. It’s barely teaching, if I’m honest. A lot of what goes on is coloring and chatting with the kids, keeping them occupied, you know?” They pass someone who gives Louis a pat on the back in greeting. “Was wondering if you’d want to take that on.”

“Uh…” His mind flashes back to the screaming baby being placed in his older sister’s arms, and feels his face set into a frown. “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.”

“Why not? I think you’d be good at it. You’re like...what do they call it? A gentle giant, or summat like that. Long legs, so they can climb you. The kids’ll absolutely adore you.”

Harry’s face flushes. They’re almost at the cafeteria. “Louis…” he tries to decline.

“Really.” Louis looks at him, face dead serious. “I need someone to do it and I would ask Liam but he’s got supply runs to go on and shit like that. Please?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says apprehensively. “There are...a lot of kids.”

Louis sighs, and they enter the doors of the cafeteria, side stepping into the line. A few heads look their way, like they’re surprised to see them together. “Look, Harry,” Louis says frankly. “I saw you talk to that girl, May--it was a while ago, I know, but you were really good with her. A lot of people don’t know how to handle her because she’s so... _direct_ , but those kids would benefit from having a new face around.”

“Niall said they would be nervous of me,” says Harry sullenly.

“Niall’s Irish,” Louis deadpans, as if that’s a perfect explanation. Harry bites his lip anxiously. So many children and he’ll be in charge of all of them.

“Why do you trust me?” he asks.

Louis shrugs and picks up a tray from the counter, placing one into Harry’s open palms. “You’ve proven yourself so far. Haven’t tried to kill anyone or run off, and I’ve given you plenty of opportunities to.” There are two teenage girls behind the counter who have abandoned serving the food to chat, leant against some crates of canned food. “Hey,” Louis calls at them. They look up blankly. “Shouldn’t you have switched shifts by now?” The girls look at each other and laugh, waving him off. It’s like they’ve shared some inside joke. Louis winks at them and scoops some rice onto his tray.

Harry feels a sting of jealousy. He doesn’t know why. Louis isn’t _his_.

They find a relatively empty table at the back of the cafeteria and sit across from each other. Niall is working, and Nick and Liam are on a supply run with some others, which leaves a couple tables free.

“Anyways,” Louis continues, tucking into his meal without waiting, “You’d be great at it. Please? I won’t lie to you, mate, I’m desperate. If you don’t say yes I might have to do it myself and I can guarantee you that won’t be pretty.”

 _You’re pretty_ , Harry almost says. He wants to scream.

“What do you say?”

He can’t figure out if he agrees because he wants to, or because Louis is giving him a look that makes Harry wants to kiss him until his lips turn blue.

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

Louis grins so widely, Harry can’t help but smile too.

 

*

 

“I don’t think I can do this.”

He’s outside the classroom and his palms are sweating and he feels like he might be sick. Louis gives him a nudge, which doesn’t help to ease his nerves.

The sound of children’s voices ring out loud and clear from inside; he’s going to be in charge of them. Even the piles of papers full of descriptive handwritten lesson plans in his hands seem useless. They’re not complicated--most just include tips on how to control the kids and the schedule. He still feels like his airways are closing up.

“Of course you can,” Louis says encouragingly. “You know everything you need to do. Five hours, and then your shift is done.”

“That’s...a lot of hours,” Harry replies, paling.

“It goes by quick. Harry, it’s one. Go.”

“I really don’t think I can.”

Louis sighs in exasperation. “If you don’t go in there right now I’m firing you.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yes it does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Shoving him towards the door, Louis rolls his eyes, but it looks playful. “Harry. There are thirty kids in there who are very smart and very kind. Most of them are orphaned. All I’m asking you to do is keep them occupied and give them a snack until your shift ends and they can eat supper.”

The truth is, Harry isn’t totally sure why he’s so nervous. Probably because he doesn’t quite trust himself after losing the only child in his life. But then he remembers May, and how her parents are dead, and he figures if he can talk to her he can talk to any of them.

He takes a deep breath. Louis nods at him.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he tells Harry, “There are cameras everywhere. So even if you don’t trust yourself, trust that I’m monitoring everything.” It’s not exactly comforting. Harry decides not to point that out.

“Okay,” Harry says. Then says it again. “Okay.”

Louis nudges him for the second time. Harry still doesn’t move. Sighing, but seeming to resist commenting further, Louis reaches for the door handle and doesn’t wait before pushing it open. Harry takes a split second to collect himself and steps over the threshold.

There’s a young woman Harry recognizes from ages ago, during his first meeting with Ben in the hub, with blonde hair and big eyes. She’s collecting crayons that have spilled over the rug. When the two of them enter, she looks up and smiles kindly.

Harry catches sight of the children now; they’re sat round tables at one side of the room, all scribbling on pieces of paper. They look up too, faces alight and cheeks pink. “Louis!” they exclaim upon their entrance.

“Harry!” cries May, shimmying in her chair.

Louis waves at the children and leads Harry right over to the woman, who stands up and holds out her hand for Harry to shake. “This is Perrie,” Louis introduces. She nods at him. “Perrie, this is Harry. I’m sure you remember him.”

“Indeed I do!” she says brightly. “Nice to meet you, Harry. Have fun today.” She releases Harry’s hand and drops the pile of crayons she’s been holding into his open palm. He stares down at them blankly. “Well, I’ll be off. Bye, Lou. Bye, Harry.” She gives them one last smile and then leaves.

“Alright!” Louis declares loudly, clapping his hands. The children are drawn from their coloring. “Listen up. This is Harry. He’s going to be your instructor for the rest of the day. You’re to treat him just as well as Perrie and Niall, you hear?”

“Where’s Niall?” one of the kids pipes up.

“He’s working on a private mission. It’s very important he has enough time to work.” The students exchange excited whispers amongst themselves at hearing this. “Remember, what do we do when we meet new people?”

“Treat people the way we want to be treated!” they chime in unison. May meets Harry’s eyes, and waves. Harry smiles slightly.

“And how do we want to be treated?” Louis has this solemn look on his face, like he takes this so seriously he forgets his own personality.

“With kindness!”

“That’s right,” Louis affirms proudly. He pats Harry on the arm. “Well, I’ll let you get to it. Have fun. Bye, kids!”

“Bye, Louis!”

Then Louis leaves too, and he’s alone. With thirty children. All staring at him expectantly.

“So…” Harry says awkwardly. He glances down at the papers in one hand and the crayons in the other. “Let’s, uh. Can we all sit in a circle? On the rug? Is that okay?” Politely, the children put down their drawing supplies and make their ways over to the carpet, where they cross their legs and fold their hands neatly in their laps in a roughly arranged circle. Harry must look a little lost, because May pats the spot next at him and gives him a toothless grin.

He sits down on the empty patch of rug and looks back at the papers.

_Learn the children’s names! It will make it easier!_

“Right,” says Harry. “Um. I’m Harry. You already know that.” There are…a lot of them. How is he supposed to learn their names? The thirty young faces wait for him to continue. “Could we all go around the circle and say our names?”

May’s hand shoots up. He stares at it dumbly.

“You’re supposed to call on me so I can speak,” she whispers in his ear.

“Oh. Right. Okay. Uh, May. You can...speak.”

“When we meet new people we usually say our names and a fun fact about ourselves.”

“Alright,” Harry accepts gratefully. “Let’s do that. May, do you want to go first?”

She giggles. “ _You_ have to go first, silly. Say a fun fact.”

It’s kind of sad; there’s not really anything fun about him. Not that he would say to the children, anyway. He thinks for a moment, and then shakes his head. “I can’t think of anything,” he says honestly.

One of the younger boys raises his hand; he looks about six or seven and has a mess of black hair on his head. Harry nods at him. “What about your favorite food? Or your favorite animal?” Harry thinks for another moment. Only on one occasion has he ever eaten something other than traditional military slop.

“My favorite food is chocolate,” he tells them, and they all break into giddy smiles.

“That’s mine too!” whisper a few of the kids, as if they’re worried they haven’t been called on.

May goes next. “I’m May. A fun fact about me is that my favorite color is pink. And also yellow.”

“Thanks, May,” Harry says gently. He looks over to the next child, a dark-skinned girl with thick curly hair.

“My name’s Jamie,” she says. “A fun fact about me is that today’s my birthday.”

Harry feels himself grin. “How old are you?”

“Nine.” She smiles bashfully as the smaller children gaze at her in wonder.

“That’s…pretty old,” Harry tells her. “Are you doing anything to celebrate?”

She nods, and points to a flower barrette in her hair. “I got this! Niall said he’d bring me a cookie on my birthday, but…” She trails off, and her smile falls. “He’s busy doing important work. But it’s okay because I got a flower.”

He feels a pang in his chest. “I’m sorry, Jamie,” he says softly. “I’ll make sure you get something extra special today.” She smiles again. The boy next to her takes his turn.

His name is Michael and his fun fact is that he had a dream last night he rode a horse. The children find this very entertaining. They all have a lot of questions; what the horse looked like, was it fast? They look to Harry for answers that Michael can’t give, and even he’s not qualified to tell them. He’s only ever seen a horse on two separate occasions, and in both he and Gemma were running for their lives.

Admittedly, it takes an hour to get through all the children. If they’re not inquiring after someone’s fun fact, Harry’s doing it. He’s taken an immediate liking to all of them, and makes a mental note to tell Louis and Niall what a great job they’re doing raising these kids.

So they finally finish learning each other’s names, and Harry thinks he’s catching on. When they’re done, they wait for him to give them their next task.

“Okay,” he says. There’s a smile plastered to his face for the first time in what might be forever. He doesn’t remember feeling this happy since he was a child. “I have an idea. Does anyone know where I can find some blankets?”

There’s a scramble to get to a closet where the children insist there are things for naptime, which they don’t do anymore because they’re ‘big kids’. There are several mats and big folded blankets. He probably shouldn’t be doing this; he has a whole plan of what he _should_ be doing written out by Louis himself.

He kind of loves these kids.

“Clear the tables,” he announces. “We’re building a fort.”

“A fort?” the children ask in excitement, rushing to clear the paper and crayons off the tables.

“Yes.” When the kids are done, Harry pulls the first table across the floor. It’s square and stands on its side because of how sturdy the metal legs are. The bookshelf separating a little reading nook from the rest of the room looks like a perfect place to balance the blanket roof; he keeps it there by stacking up some heavy books. The foam mats make perfect walls.

Harry rifles through the desk drawer and finds the flashlight Niall had used during the raid. “Does anyone know where the lights are?” One of the older boys, Edgar, scurries over to the light switch and flips them off, submerging the room in darkness except for the torch in Harry’s hand.

He flicks on the torch.

Gesturing for the children to follow him, he gets on his knees and crawls through the small opening in between mats.

“What do you think?” Harry asks, once all the kids are huddled together under the blanket roof.

They whisper together in delight.

“Tell us a story, Harry!” May pleads.

It’s been four months since Harry met her, which means she must be six now. Harry had promised to tell her about the outside, and he’s never been one to break his promises.

“Yeah!” the children cry in hushed voices. “Tell us a story!”

 

And so Harry thinks for a moment, and then he begins to speak.

 


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> niall can't get a lead, and louis is done waiting.

They press closer together, eager to listen.

“There was this boy. He had a big sister and a baby cousin, and he loved them a lot. They lived in a brick building in Manchester, and in the middle of the building complex there was a big fountain. They would throw coins into the fountain whenever they had a wish, and the fountain would keep it safe until their wishes came true. And so every day, the boy wished for a true love. He hoped that one day, he would meet the love of his life, and the fountain...it kept his wish safe.

“One day, there was a storm. It was so big, and violent, the building was destroyed. The boy and his sister and cousin had no place to live. They gathered their things and left Manchester, and they set off through the woods in order to find a new home.

“They spent days travelling. They slept under trees and in caves, until finally, they found a little house to live in. It was perfect. They decided they would live there, and from then on, they were very happy.”

“Is that it?” says one of the boys doubtfully.

“Not yet.” Harry takes a deep, steeling breath. “The boy went out one day to collect some firewood. It was going to be winter soon, and the weather was getting cold. While he was out, he ran into a group of men. They told him they knew where firewood was, so he followed them. They led him straight into a trap, and captured him. Then they drove him away, leaving his sister and cousin behind.”

The children gasp.

“The boy ended up at an orphanage. There were lots of other boys his age, but he missed his sister and cousin desperately. The food was terrible and there was nothing to do. The people who ran the orphanage were mean.

“He met another boy there who he quickly became good friends with. Soon they were best friends. They did everything together. The boy soon found himself falling in love with the other boy, but they weren’t allowed to be in love.”

“Why not?” the children chime.

“Because. If they fell in love, there would be a terrible curse. They would never be allowed to leave. They would have to stay there forever.

“But they hated the orphanage. They didn’t want to stay there, but the only way to break the curse was to escape. So they created a plan. At midnight, they would sneak out and leave the orphanage, and find the cabin the sister and cousin were living in.” Harry pauses for a moment to recollect himself. “And so that night, they snuck out the window, and they ran away as fast as they could.

“It took many days and nights to find the cabin, but when they did, the boy was so happy he fell to his knees and cried. The sister came running out and hugged him tightly, and told the other boy he could live with them. The two boys were in love, and they lived wonderful lives in their cabin. They could kiss whenever they wanted. The end.”

There’s a moment of silence as the children digest his words.

“That was a great story,” May tells him kindly, patting him on his knee with her tiny hand.

“Thank you,” Harry murmurs.

They pass around stories for a while. Harry doesn’t know how long it goes on for but the stories get progressively sillier until the children are clutching their tummies and rolling around with laughter.

Six o’clock comes quickly. Harry’s surprised at the sound of the door opening, and holds a finger to his lips to tell the children to be quiet.

“What the fu--...I mean, heck is going on here?” It’s Louis. The kids cover their mouths to stifle their giggles.

“Nothing!” calls Harry innocently.

The blanket flap sealing the fort lifts, and Louis’ face peers through. He raises a stern eyebrow at them all.

“I thought you were supposed to be writing about why it’s important to eat your vegetables,” Louis says, narrowing his eyes.

“We did this instead,” Harry shrugs innocently.

Louis looks like he wants to say something more, but decides against it, instead stepping away to turn the lights on and motioning for the kids to exit. They look a little deflated that it’s six already and they have to leave. Harry follows last, getting to his feet a little clumsily. He steps back to review the fort, pleased at his work.

“Line up at the door for supper,” Louis instructs efficiently. The fort’s taken up half the room and Harry wants to laugh. “What do you all say to Harry for...working with you today?”

“Thank you Harry!” they say together. Some of them look a little sad. Jamie raises her hand.

“Yes, Jamie?” Louis nods at her.

“Will Harry be coming back again?”

Louis tilts his head, amused. “Maybe. It all depends if Niall gets his work done or not.” He pushes open the door to where Perrie’s waiting in the hallway, and while his back is turned, Harry waves his arms at the children to get their attention.

“ _I’ll be back tomorrow_ ,” he mouths, just so they stop looking so down, and their faces light up all over again.

“Say ‘bye, Harry,’” Louis directs.

“Bye, Harry!”

Perrie leads the line down the hallway to where they’ll eat, and mild chatter dissipates, leaving Harry and Louis alone. Together. In the empty classroom.

“So I see you’ve had a productive day,” Louis observes, giving him a smirk. Harry’s hair must be askew; his cheeks are flushed with laughter and his dimple feels set into his cheek.

“Yeah,” he replies breathlessly.

“How were the kids?”

“They were…” Harry feels himself smile again, without the ability to help it. “Wonderful. They’re lovely. And so smart.” He’s gushing, now. “They’re just amazing people. I think they liked me.”

Louis puts his hands in his pockets. He looks like he’s trying to suppress his own grin. “Well, from the looks on their faces, they didn’t want to leave.” He turns around so he’s facing Harry directly. His hair is a bit ruffled and his beard has grown again. His eyes are _blue, blue, blue._

It’s been so long since they’ve done anything.

Harry shifts his gaze down to Louis lips. It’s minute enough so that if Louis wasn’t looking for it, he wouldn’t notice, but...he does. He notices. And his expression changes into something more smug. He takes a step closer to Harry, and Harry’s pulse quickens instantly.

“Frustrated?” he asks lowly.

Harry blinks, and gapes at him. “Wh...what?”

“Are you frustrated?”

Harry’s cheeks feel flaming hot. “No.”

“So you don’t want to tell me anything?” Louis’ getting awfully close. Harry’s insides fill with heat.

Harry juts his chin out, trying to muster up some dignity, and shakes his head.

“Okay.” Louis inches closer, standing on his toes so he can reach Harry’s height. “I can tell you’re desperate, Harry. You don’t need to lie to me.”

Louis spins around and stalks out of the room, leaving Harry still standing there.

He wipes his sweaty palms on his trousers. There’s a bulge in the front of his pants.

He wants to die.

 

*

 

And so Harry pines. A lot.

It’s not that he misses Louis; they see each other all the time. But it’s like they’ve graduated from whatever they _had_ and have just moved on. They don’t speak of it, and they certainly don’t kiss. Or touch. Or do anything.

That’s what Harry misses. He finds he’s been so deprived of any kind of touch, now that he’s felt it again it’s addicting. He’s touch-starved, and he _craves_ further contact. Like he might die if he doesn’t feel it again.

He looks out for any gay mannerisms that other soldiers might have, but doesn’t see any. He must’ve grown familiar with hiding his _own_ gay mannerisms; if there are any soldiers like him, they know how to hide it too.

So there’s nobody to kiss until his lips are numb. Only Louis. Problem is he has no idea how to bring it up; not after Louis’ teasing. He’s run through the scenario in his head countless times: _hi, Louis, I know we haven’t done this in a while but I’d really like to snog you again._

He’s so fucked. He’s done for.

The kids are really a wonderful distraction. They’re kind, and thoughtful, and though he’s been told sternly that he’s no longer allowed to build forts with the children anymore, he still finds other, more exciting things to do. They do yoga one day, after Harry’s found a book on health and wellness. They build card towers. They write a play. But there’s something else occupying his mind.

Harry has turned into a ball of frustration and irritation by the end of the week. It starts when he snaps at Liam, which he feels bad for, and then he snaps at Nick, which he doesn’t feel bad for. He’s been told he knows how to get what he wants. He really, really hopes that’s true.

It’s the first day Niall’s been seen outside the computer lab in what seems like an extraordinarily long time. It’s somewhat of a shock to see him in Louis’ office when he’s called in after dinner. His cane is leant against the wall and he’s sitting back in a chair with his arms crossed. Louis has a sour look on his face, and Jack is focused on a spot somewhere on the wall.

“What’s going on?” he asks tentatively.

Nobody answers.

“Did something happen?” he presses.

Niall huffs out a breath. “Lou?”

Louis sighs. “Niall can’t find a lead.”

“What does that mean?” Harry says blankly.

“It means we’re fucked,” Niall bursts out. “I can’t get into the system. There’s no way to know if Ben’s with them or not. If we go to Cardiff, we could be going on a suicide mission for no fuckin’ reason.”

“It’s time to accept that he’s not coming back,” Jack says quietly.

“No,” Louis butts in. “I’m going to Cardiff. Ben is _there._ I know it. If you won’t help, then fine. I’ll do it myself. But I’m gonna save Ben, and you all are going to thank me when we win this fucking revolution under his leadership. Not mine.”

“Louis,” Harry begins slowly, carefully, “What if Ben’s not there?”

“He will be,” Louis discards.

“We don’t know that, Lou!” Niall tells him, finally raising his voice. “We don’t have any proof. I don’t give a shit about your gut instinct. If we win this revolution it’ll have to be you, and I’m sorry but that’s just how it is. Deal with it. Live with it. The Rebellion is yours now.”

“No!” Louis repeats, louder this time. “Ben didn’t give it to me. It’s his. We’re going to Cardiff. That’s that.”

“Wait,” Harry says, furrowing his brows. “What revolution?”

“I’m not going,” Jack says, ignoring him. “I’m out of this. But I’m not taking over when you’re dead.”

“What revolution?” Harry says again.

Louis finally meets his eyes. “That’s none of your business,” he says harshly.

“Okay but it _is_ my business, actually? What haven’t you all told me?”

Nobody says anything. He’s faced with complete silence.

“What haven’t you all--”

“Ben had this plan,” Niall says. “He’s had it in his files for ages. Nobody knows exactly what’s in it. But he said if he ever disappeared, Louis was to be the one to open it and to carry out the plan. It was supposed to contain plans for...a revolution.”

“I opened it,” Louis snaps.

Niall’s jaw drops.

“Here, read it for yourself.” He sticks a hand into his desk drawer and pulls out a single piece of paper, thrusting it towards Niall. Harry steps closer to look over his shoulder.

 

_Louis,_

_If you’re reading this, I’m gone. I can’t say where I’ll be._

_I always hinted this paper would contain something to do with the proposed revolution. This is what I want you to do:_

_You’ll want to find me at one of the government buildings. You’ll need to go there for a different reason._

_I trust you, but you need to trust yourself. The Rebellion is yours, now. You know what to do._

 

Harry shifts his eyes downwards, and his heart stops.

There’s a picture. Of his sister. Right in front of his eyes.

 

_Gemma Styles, Age 25. Government worker. Location: Cardiff._

 

He practically tears the paper from Niall’s hands, holding it close to his face and examining the picture. His fingers are trembling. That’s Gemma. That’s his sister.

His eyes well with tears, searching the pixelated black and white image for anything that could say she’s still the same person.

_Government worker._

She’s with them.

“Fuck,” he hears Niall say. Harry can’t stop shaking.

She’s with them. She's with them.

“What?” Jack is asking. “What is it?”

“I think you guys should leave me and Harry alone for a bit.”

“Fuck no,” Niall protests.

“Niall,” Louis says, and his tone must hold something that makes Niall agree. He gets out of his chair begrudgingly, limping out of the room with Jack following obliviously on his trail. The door closes.

Louis walks up to him and takes the paper carefully from his hand, folding it neatly. “Harry. Look at me.”

He wrings his hands and looks into Louis’ eyes. _Blue, blue, blue._

“We’re going to save your sister,” he says softly. Harry wants to twist his fingers in Louis’ hair. “I promise.”

“What...what if they’ve hurt her…” he chokes out desperately. “What if she hates me? She works for the government, Louis. What if she hates me?”

“Shh…” Louis soothes, and wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders, pulling him in tight. Harry doesn’t have any tears left. He buries his face in Louis’ neck. “She doesn’t hate you,” Louis whispers into his skin. “I promise. We’re gonna get her back.”

 _I promise._ Every promise Harry has ever been told has been broken.

His thoughts race; the answer to where his sister is has been hidden in Ben’s files this whole time. Harry’s blood boils. They could be together now if it weren’t for Ben. All the research that Niall did was for nothing. All this time, Ben knew. Ben lied.

Louis pulls back when Harry’s first few hot tears spill over his shoulder. “Harry…” he says, but looks like he doesn’t quite know what else to say.

“Kiss me,” Harry whispers.

“Harry.”

“Please. I just...want to not think.”

Louis eyes dart down to his lips, then back up.

“Please,” Harry repeats.

Louis leans in.

There’s a desperation behind the kiss Harry has never felt before. Not with Z. Not with _anyone._ The second their lips touch it forces something out of Harry he must have been storing inside for a long time. He grips Louis’ hips like a lifeline. Louis cups Harry’s face in his hands. Harry’s mind drifts off to Gemma’s face.

He needs more. Suddenly, it’s not enough.

Harry pushes his tongue into Louis’ mouth, and waits for some sign to pull away. It doesn’t come. So he presses in further. Louis’ hand goes to the back of his neck and squeezes. A tiny noise escapes Harry’s mouth.

He needs more.

“Fuck,” Louis breathes into Harry’s mouth. “Harry. Are we doing this?”

“I don’t know,” Harry whispers, and surges forward for another kiss.

“Are we…” Louis trails off when Harry’s tongue traces the roof of his mouth. “Harry. Fuck. Do we--bedroom?”

Another wave of heat washes over Harry’s whole body. _Yesyesyesyesyes,_ he thinks. He needs.

“Okay.” Louis pulls back. His lips are shiny and pink and _swollen_ and Harry wants to cry. Louis takes his hand so gently Harry thinks he might collapse. “Come on.” He pushes the door open slowly, looks both ways, and holds a finger to his lips, before tugging Harry out into the hallway and breaking into a run towards his room.

Harry’s so wobbly it feels like hours to get there. It doesn’t look much different than it did when Harry got his head wound. He watches Louis shut the door and lock it, and looks down at their hands, still connected.

“Are you alright?” Louis asks seriously, weaving his fingers into Harry’s hair. His curls are growing.

“Y--yeah,” he stammers.

Louis leans in and kisses him again, walking him backwards so his knees collide with the bed and he trips.

“Easy,” Louis murmurs. “Sit.”

Harry does, and wills himself not to think.

Louis moves so slowly and languidly Harry would think they have all the time in the world. He puts his legs on either side of Harry’s thighs so he’s straddling his lap and cradles his face in his hands again. “Just breathe, okay?” he says. Harry nods.

Louis licks into his mouth, swallowing his breath like its his own. Harry sucks on his tongue for a moment and then...well, Louis just grinds his hips down against his crotch. He can’t really help the strangled croak he lets out, nor can he be blamed for it.

Harry’s hard. Relentlessly, Louis works his hips over and over and moves his lips over Harry’s neck and collarbone until Harry’s just about writhing on the bed. “More,” he gasps when Louis nips his earlobe. “Please. Louis.”

“Okay. Fuck.” Louis swings his leg off so he’s sitting beside Harry and pulls him up towards the headboard. “Lie back.” Harry feels his stomach clench with nerves but leans against the pillows. He just _lets._ Lets Louis do what he thinks is right. Harry doesn’t want to think. Just feel.

So they go slow. It’s several minutes until Louis pulls off his own shirt, revealing a fine collection of tattoos, and another moment before he tugs at Harry’s. He kind of freezes up.

“Wait,” Harry says. His voice sounds far from his own. “There are...I’ve got. A lot of scars? Is that okay?”

The corner of Louis’ mouth quirks up, like he finds the question silly. “Of course it’s okay, love.”

 _Love._ Harry moans without realizing, and Louis strips off his shirt for him.

There are about three seconds when all he does is look. His eyes scan Harry’s torso, drinking in the sight of him, and Harry shifts, uncomfortable.

“No,” Louis says, when he notices. “You’re beautiful. Please.” He doesn’t know what the please is for, but it seems to mean everything.

Harry has had very few sexual experiences in his life. A couple instances with Z, where they stayed in the showers until after dark and jerked each other off while pressing their lips into the other’s skin. More instances with girls, which he never really liked but still valued as experiences. But he’s never really known how to make it feel just right.

It’s kind of why he puts all his trust into Louis. Why he doesn’t question when Louis reaches into his bedside drawer and pulls out a tube of Vaseline, or when he unbuttons Harry’s jeans and gives him a careful look-- _are you okay?_ \--before sticking his hand down his pants.

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, now, and releases a long moan from the back of his throat. Louis’ hand is small but moves up and down like he knows Harry’s body _perfectly._ “Don’t think,” Louis whispers, twisting his hand and making all of Harry’s muscles go lax. “Just feel,” he murmurs, connecting their lips when Harry’s moans get a bit too loud.

Louis gets his own jeans off then. He’s hard, too, which fills Harry with molten, liquid heat, something that feels like thick oil coursing its way through his limbs. Harry rests a hand on Louis’ lower stomach, traces over the trail of fine hair, too scared to go any further.

“It’s okay,” Louis whispers, sounding just as desperate as Harry feels. “You can.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” Harry says, then gasps when Louis does something different with his hand.

“You won’t,” Louis sighs into his mouth. “Hang on…” He grips the waistband of his boxers and pulls them down to his thighs. Harry thinks the breath is knocked out of him.

“You can touch,” Louis says softly. “It’s alright.”

Tenderly, Harry traces down his stomach. All he does is wrap his fingers around it, but like some switch has been flipped, Louis squeezes his eyes shut and cants his hips forward. _Fuck._

“Can we…” Harry bites his lip. They both still have their pants on, their jeans discarded somewhere on the floor. “Together?”

“Shit,” Louis swears, as Harry starts moving his hand. “Yeah. Fuck. Okay.”

Louis reached over and scoops a glob of Vaseline into his palm. They shift their bodies so they’re totally aligned, and then Louis wraps his slippery hand around _both_ of them, moving his hand up and down in a perfect way that drives Harry mad, and he’s sure he sees stars.

“Fuck,” he moans. “Fuck oh my _god_.”

It’s quite possibly the best thing he’s ever felt. Nothing in his life has felt this raw and real and _good._ He thinks Louis has ruined kissing anyone else for him. Has ruined doing _anything_ with anyone else.

“Harry,” says Louis, low pitched and deep, and that kind of does it. Louis is moaning his name. It’s the most astonishing thing he’s ever heard.

“I’m close,” Harry whimpers, and Louis sucks at the column of his throat, which makes his hips buck involuntarily. All it takes is for Louis to sink his teeth gently into the spot behind his ear and twist his hand deliciously and Harry’s spilling in between them, body wracked with shivers. Louis follows momentarily, releasing just when Harry gets to the point of too sensitive.

Louis nearly collapses on top of him then, rolling off onto his back and taking time to catch his breath. Harry looks over at him. There’s a thin sheen of sweat covering his chest and neck, and with a start, Harry realizes there are bite marks on his neck he’s left there.

“Fuck,” Louis says hoarsely after a moment.

Harry rolls onto his side so he’s facing Louis. He wants to stroke the side of his face, and doesn’t have it in him to stop himself. He sweeps his index finger from his temple, down the line of his jaw, and finds himself tracing the tattoo on his collarbones-- _it is what it is._

Louis smiles so his eyes crinkle. “Tickles,” he murmurs sluggishly. “We’re sticky.”

Harry hums in reply, and buries his face in Louis’ neck.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but at some point Harry dozes off. Their radiating body heat and bare skin touching make it easy to forget everything.

  



	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> triangles and revolution.

Harry doesn’t dream.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps for, either. Just that when he wakes up, he’s not in his bed, and he’s naked, and his legs are tangled with someone else’s, and his cheek is pressed against someone’s chest.

 _It’s Louis_ , he realizes.

The man’s got an arm wrapped around his back. He looks beautiful when he sleeps. Young.

Harry has no idea what time it is, but doesn’t really care. It could be afternoon for all he knows. He decides that, for a bit, he won’t think. Not in this warm bed with Louis’ bare body against him.

He lets out a sigh of contentment and burrows deeper into Louis’ arms, but only gets a moment longer of blissful calm before Louis is stirring and blinking groggily down at where Harry lays.

“Time’s it?” he slurs tiredly. Harry shakes his head.

“Dunno,” he replies, sliding his hand over Louis’ stomach. He has so many tattoos. “What do they mean?”

“Huh?”

“Your tattoos,” Harry clarifies sleepily. “What do they mean?”

Louis gives him a lazy half-smile that looks fond. “I’ve got a lot. It’d take days to explain them all.”

“Well which one’s your favorite?”

Louis yawns. “My ankle. There’s a triangle.” He explains before Harry even has the chance to ask what it means. “In school--I don’t know if they taught you about this. But in school, we learned about the Second World War, and how Hitler was intent on creating this perfect race. Anyone outside of that were sent to concentration camps. Worse than what you were sent to, I think. Homosexuality was outlawed; gay men had to wear these triangles to show that they were less than human. A lot more terrible shit happened too, but...I dunno. It’s a reminder, I guess.”

Harry swallows. “Of what?”

Sighing, Louis squeezes Harry’s hip. “That there are other people who were like me. Hiding themselves. Scared to be themselves.”

“That’s beautiful,” Harry whispers.

Louis blushes visibly. “You...you think so?”

“Yeah. I...I’ve never met someone who was the same as me.” He weaves his leg over Louis’ thighs. “Did...did you know I was gay? When you met me?”

“Not until I read your journal. Which I only did because Ben told me to. And I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Louis’ other hand finds his hair, toying with some of the growing curls. “Do you think the Second War was worse than the Third?”

Louis contemplates for a second. “It depends on how you look at it. The Second World War...well, there was civilization back then. Now, there’s just us.”

“Just us,” Harry echoes.

“Yeah.”

They don’t speak for a while, but it’s far from awkward. It’s comfortable and everything is soft and Harry wants to stay here forever. There could be a war going on outside and they wouldn’t even know it.

“Louis?”

“Hmm?”

“When we met, you said I was dangerous. What did you mean?”

It’s a long time before Louis replies. Harry feels his breath in his hair. It’s nice.

“Ben doesn’t...didn’t know. He never knew about me. He didn’t know about you, either. I made sure of that. I couldn’t predict what his reaction would be; you always think these people are so understanding, right? My experiences have proven otherwise. But I can’t control what you say. I’m...not that kind of person. You thought I was an asshole for a long time, but it had to be that way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Because if you trusted me enough to think I would understand and accept you were gay, I couldn’t anticipate who else you’d tell. And if Ben reacted badly, I would have no choice but to step in.”

“Step in?”

“In solidarity.” Louis closes his eyes. “I wouldn’t be able to stand by and watch you suffer for being the same as me. If you were going down, I’d have to go down with you. That’s why you were dangerous to me. Because in exposing yourself, you’d expose me too. That was horrifying.

“When you mentioned the gender thing to Ben...I thought you were going to slip. I was terrified. He never understood that.” Louis’ laugh is humorless, bitter. “In all truthfulness, he wasn’t a wonderful person to begin with. But I’m not cut out to be the leader of the Rebellion. Not after everything.”

Harry doesn’t press further, even though he wants to desperately. “Even if I did accidentally expose myself to Ben...I would never ask you to do that for me.”

“It’s not about you asking that of me. I have morals. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you ended up executed and I wasn’t, just because I’d stood around and watched. Ben wouldn’t be able to execute me, anyways. He owes me too much.”

Harry doesn’t ask about that either.

“C’mere,” Louis says. “Lemme kiss you.”

Tilting his head up, Harry places his hand on Louis’ cheek. They kiss softly, slowly.

_Friends don’t do this._

“We should probably get up,” Louis sighs.

“Mm,” Harry replies.

 _So what if they don’t move for another hour?_ Harry thinks, after everything, they’ve earned the extra time.

 

*

 

They can’t stay in bed forever. At some point, Louis slides out from under the covers and goes off to shower. He tells Harry to borrow some of his clothes, but when Louis emerges, Harry’s still stark naked.

“None of them fit,” he says flatly, which sends Louis bursting into a fit of laughter, and Harry just _can’t_ feel embarrassed.

He doesn’t remember a time when he hasn’t been self-conscious about the many scars scattered across his body. Probably before he had them. Louis has kind of changed everything.

Louis’ changed _him._

Harry showers next. He’s still sticky and sweaty. Louis’ private shower is a lot nicer than the communal ones, and instead of grainy handmade oatmeal soap, there’s fruity shampoo and conditioner-- _conditioner_ \--that makes his hair soft and fluffy and smell like strawberries. He steps out of the bathroom with a towel slung low over his hips and Louis kisses him hard.

“You ready?” Louis asks him once they’re both dressed.

“Yeah.”

There’s one more kiss, and then they step out of the hallway together, back into reality.

 

*

 

Harry sits across from Louis in his office while he calls for Niall and Jack over the intercom. His hair is air drying and his clothes are clean, borrowed ones that are too big for Louis.

It’s time to talk.

He refuses to look back at the picture of Gemma. He thinks he might break, if he does. When Niall and Jack come into the room, both their eyes narrow in suspicion.

“So we’re finally gonna fucking sort this out?” Niall says, dropping into a chair and balancing his cane against Louis’ desk. His words prove he’s upset but his voice holds more sympathy. Harry feels a pang when he realizes that’s the first picture Niall’s ever seen of Harry's sister.

It’s the first time Harry’s seen her since they were separated.

He doesn’t want to think about it. At all.

“I think we can all agree this isn’t about Ben anymore,” Jack says. “This is about the revolution. So...as the new leader of the Rebellion, I think it’s important that Louis makes the call.”

“Don’t call me that,” Louis tells him miserably. “And no. It’s not up to me. It’s up to Harry.”

Harry looks up abruptly from where he’s been staring at his lap. “What?”

“Actually, Louis’ right,” Niall agrees. “Ben knew that you were looking for your sister, and it looks like he knew where she was, as well. Setting aside the revolution, and Louis’ instructions...do you want to risk the mission to find her?”

Swallowing, and feeling the burn of three pairs of eyes watching him intently, he splutters for a moment. “I...I don’t know. I can’t...I can’t make that call.”

“This is about your sister,” Louis tells him. “We can’t say for certain she’s there. But Ben isn’t a liar. So.”

Niall scoffs. “How can you say that? He literally pretended he had no idea where Harry’s sister was for _months_. He made me spend hours in the lab trying to find some kind of lead when he had it all already.”

“Stop,” Harry says quietly. “I...I can’t say she’s there. Because I don’t know. And I don’t want to believe it. She always told me how she’d always be on our side. I...I don’t know.” The three men wait with bated breath. “I think we need to go to Cardiff. We collect our manpower. We make a battle plan. We can’t just go in guns blazing. If we accomplish what Ben intended, then that’s done. If we can find Ge--” It physically pains him to say her name. His throat aches, all prickly. “If we can find my sister, that’s good too.”

There’s a long moment of silence. Harry fears he’s said something wrong.

“There’s our revolution,” Louis replies eventually.

Niall sighs, but he doesn’t sound so angry anymore. Just tired. Somehow, that makes Harry feel even worse. “I guess we’re going to Cardiff.”

“There are a lot of logistics to sort out,” Jack warns. “We’ll need a lot of soldiers. I don’t know the manpower they have there. Niall, will you be able to find out?”

“I’ll do my best. Can’t say for certain.”

“Chances are, it won’t be too extravagant,” Louis says. “There shouldn’t be too many. Nobody would dare to target a government building, anyway. Niall, see what you can do?”

Niall stares at the wall. “Give me, like...a day. And then I’ll work again. I think my brain is dying.”

“That’s not medically possible at your point in health,” Jack says.

“Is too,” Niall retorts defensively. “Can I go back and eat now? I’m tired as fuck. Someone’s gonna have to take over my teaching shift again.”

“Fuck it,” Louis says. “I’ll have Greg do it.”

“I...I can still work,” Harry tells them, even though he doesn’t really believe it himself. The three others look at him pointedly, as if reminding him he’s just learned his long lost sister isn’t dead, and instead, is working with the government.

It still hasn’t sunk in. Harry doesn’t think it ever will.

“Not there,” Louis says. “I’m gonna need you to help me plan. There’s a lot to be done.”

Harry sighs.

“Alright, lads. You’re dismissed. Niall, you have the rest of the day off, but tomorrow I want you on the database. Harry, you need to go eat. Jack, I’ve got a question for you. Off you go, boys.”

Niall pushes up from his chair and picks up his cane, hobbling towards the door. “C’mon, H,” he says, and Harry gets to his feet. “We’re off to do cooler things. Bye, nerds.” Louis rolls his eyes, and Jack waves them off. The two of them set off down the hallway.

“So,” Niall begins casually. “You and Louis, huh?”

Harry’s stomach shoots to his throat. “What?”

“You two are getting kinda friendly, aren’t ya’?”

His mind leaps to the worst conclusion. Niall must’ve seen something. There’s no other way he could know what Harry and Louis have been doing. Even though he knows Niall would never do something to expose him, there’s that inkling of worry stirring inside him that he won’t approve.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Harry’s voice wavers.

Niall puts a hand on his shoulder so they both stop walking. “H. I don’t care who you fuck. Okay? I love you and will always support you.” He pulls Harry into a long, tight hug. “I just don’t wanna see you get hurt. Be careful, alright? I know I don’t need to tell you that, but…well. I will anyway.”

“Thank you,” Harry says gratefully, taken aback.

Niall smacks a kiss on his cheek.

Harry is really, really lucky to have him.

 

*

 

The problems of Ben and Gemma and the revolution don’t disappear.

They stay with him at all times, but he tries not to let them bother him too much. They just kind of sit there. Conscious and real, but not urgent.

Jack is the one who brings up the importance of having an assembly to announce Louis’ new position as leader of the Rebellion. Louis is originally appalled at the idea, saying it’ll only fuel the fear of the Rebels and citizens, but after some time, he caves. His one condition is that he gets to write his own address, insisting that if one of the more educated residents like Jack or Liam write it, it won’t be honest.

Harry respects that a lot. He might swoon when Louis mentions that. Of course, he can never really get away with being uninvolved in things. Proven when Louis calls him over the intercom one day and, in his office, practically begs him to help write the speech because he’s ‘gay and not smart, and Harry is gay but smarter’. That makes Harry laugh.

“Well,” Harry begins, peering down at the incoherent script Louis has written out in front of him. “What do you have so far?”

Louis blushes. “It’s...pretty shit. So.” He pushes his chair back so Harry can take a look.

“ _Dear citizens of the Rebellion_ ,” Harry reads, squinting. “Is...is that it?”

“Yeah,” Louis groans, stretching.

“Um. To be honest, you’ve got a little ways to go.” Harry pulls a chair over to the desk and sits down, picking up a pencil. “What’s the point you want to get across?”

Louis stares at him blankly. “That I’m the new leader.”

“Right. But...you want them to trust you, right? So just be yourself.”

“Be myself?” Louis repeats doubtfully. 

“Yeah. So make some jokes or something. I dunno.”

Louis thinks for a moment. “I’ve got nothing, Harry.”

Sighing, Harry puts his hand over where Louis’ is resting on the arm of the chair and curls their fingers together. “Just think, Louis. You can do it. You’re good at talking to people.” Louis tugs Harry a little closer.

“Will you write it for me?” Louis asks hopefully into his hair, kissing his temple for good measure as if trying to convince him.

“Louis…”

“Please? It’d make me really happy.”

It doesn’t take much for him to give in. “Alright. Fine. When do you want it by?”

The way Louis’ eyes crinkle make it worth it. “Thank you, love.” There’s that pet name again. Harry feels lightheaded. “It should probably be by the end of the week. I’ll make an announcement later.”

“You procrastinate a lot, don’t you?” Louis scratches Harry’s scalp, and he exhales deeply, resting his head on Louis’ shoulder. Like this, he can pretend they don’t have to worry about anything.

“I like to think I’m good at organizing my time,” he replies simply, a hint of humor laced into his words, and Harry melts into his touch. He never wants this to end. Even though they’re in separate chairs he still feels as warm as he did this morning.

_Friends don’t do this._

There’s a sudden knock on the door, and they jerk apart right before it opens. Niall’s standing there, and upon seeing the two, his eyebrows raise and he looks like he wants to say something, but decides against it.

“What’s up?” he asks, smirking and crossing his arms. Harry and Louis look at each other, then back at Niall, trying to appear as casual as possible.

“Just...writing a speech,” Louis shrugs. Harry scratches the back of his neck, cheeks warm.

“Hm. Okay.” Niall still has that stupid smirk on his face. “Well, Greg needs a new lesson plan. Apparently the kids won’t stop talking about Harry, and are…” He holds up his fingers in quotes. “‘Refusing to do anything he says.’ I’m getting a little jealous, to be honest. He wants you to make it fun.”

Louis laughs. “Fun?”

“Yeah. Like, whatever shit H did with them. Didn’t you build a blanket fort?”

“Something like that,” Harry says. “I could just...like, go back and work there.”

“Harry, you realize you’re on the leadership board, right? It’s you, me, Niall, and Jack. We run the Rebellion. You’ve got other things to do that aren’t occupying children. Like write me my fucking speech.” He pushes the paper across the desk as if to prove a point.

“Jesus,” says Niall. “You really need Harry to write it for you? It’s like, two minutes long.”

“Get to work,” Louis directs, scowling.

“I wanna see the kids,” Harry laments sadly.

“Write my speech.” Louis shoves the paper at his face.

“All right. I’m leaving. You two continue...eye fucking, or whatever.”

Harry chokes, and Louis looks offended.

Then Niall leaves. Neither of them miss the wink he flashes before the door closes.

 

*

 

The assembly is held at the end of that week, in the cafeteria at the end of the day, after the food and tables have been cleared away.

Liam and Nick are the ones to help guide everyone into their rightful place, positioned at the cafeteria doors. There are three tiers. The Rebel soldiers stand in the far back, men and women alike. They all lack traditional army stance. It’s like everything they’re made out of is the opposite of the government’s army. Harry loves it.

The second tier is citizens. There are people ranging in age from early teens to elderly, and Harry has never seen so many happy people together in one place. They chatter loudly and laugh together and even though it’s unbearably loud, it still feels comfortable. Homely. It takes Harry a moment to realize the Rebellion has become his home.

The third tier is children.

A man Harry doesn’t recognize--he must be Greg--alongside Perrie, lead the children into the cafeteria last. They look around curiously. Louis’ told him that some of them have never been to such a gathering of people. When Harry finds May in the crowd of people, her mouth is wide open and her head tilted back in awe. The thirty children are sat criss-crossed in front of the lines of citizens, who coo at them sweetly.

They don’t have a stage. There’s a makeshift podium for Louis to use made up of a rectangular barstool and tablecloth, and just enough space for four people; one for Louis himself, one for Niall, one for Jack, and one for Harry. The newest addition to the board of leadership.

Well. Louis is nervous.

Harry’s never seen him quite like this. His leg bobs up and down restlessly, and he’s biting his nails. The paper in his hand with Harry’s writing on it is growing smudged with sweat.

“Louis,” Harry says. “You’ll be fine. Why are you so nervous?”

“Because,” he replies, jittery, “There are a lot of fucking people here. All just waiting for me to fuck up.”

“Nobody’s waiting for you to fuck up,” Harry laughs.

“If I tell them I’m the new leader, everything becomes real. There’s no going back. You realize that, right?” Louis shakes his head. “It means Ben’s gone. I need to stand in front of them and tell them their leader is gone. Fuck. I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can. You’re absolutely cut out for this. All you have to do is read from the paper.” Harry looks to his right, where Niall is gesturing in confusion. _Why aren’t we starting?_

“I have to protect them,” Louis says. “I’m not cut out for this, man.”

“You are.” Harry gives him a little nudge towards the podium. “Go on. The least you can do is _give_ the speech after I wrote the whole damn thing.”

“I wrote the first line!” Louis defends indignantly.

“Louis. You’re stalling.”

Louis looks like he wants to punch Harry. Harry makes a mental note to kiss him especially well tonight.

By the time Louis steps up to the podium, he’s looking fairly green. Liam, still positioned with Nick at the doors, claps his hands to silence the crowd. He gives the four of them a bright smile and two thumbs up. Louis clears his throat.

“Thank you all for being here,” he starts, voice raised. “And for taking time out of your work to attend this assembly. You know who I am, but I’d like to begin by introducing the members of the board.” Harry blinks at him. None of that is written on the paper. “First, you all know Niall. He’s been with us for almost two years now, but has been essential in every mission since his arrival.” The crowd claps and cheers, children pumping their fists in the air, and Niall acknowledges them with a dismissive wave and huge smile.

“Jack has been with us for going on six years now. He’s been our doctor for three.” Flushing, Jack flashes the crowd a smile. Their cheers aren’t quite as loud as they were for Niall.

“Finally, we have our newest addition to the board. He joined us in January and has been one of our most essential members. He’s taken on several highly demanding missions and has failed none of them. He is yet more proof that the Rebellion saves lives.” That’s _definitely_ not what Harry’s written. “Please join me in welcoming Harry." 

There’s a second of silence. Harry’s certain Louis’ fucked up. That nobody will clap, not for _him._

Then the cafeteria erupts in applause.

He grins at them sheepishly, not sure what to do with his hands. Somewhere off to the side, he hears a whoop. When he searches the crowd, he sees Fionn, fist in the air. Triumphant. For _him._

When he looks down at where the children are sitting, their cheers get louder. He waves, embarrassed. They all wave right back at him.

Louis clears his throat again, and the cheers die down. “Alright. Well, there’s a reason we’re all here today, and though I wish it was just to welcome someone, unfortunately it’s not.” Louis looks down at the paper, folds it neatly, and tucks it in his back pocket. Harry gawks at him.

“Today I am officially informing you all of my new position as leader of the Rebellion.” There’s a collective intake of breath. The children just look confused.

“It’s no secret that there’s been...tension occurring between the government and the Rebellion lately. We don’t know details. But I’m also announcing Ben's disappearance.” Whispers erupt; shared glances, shocked words. “Quiet, please.” The crowd falls back into silence. “I don’t like hiding things from you all. So I think it’s important you all know what our next step is.

“We will be organizing a mission into a government building in Cardiff. This will involve the rescue of non-government hostages and hopefully the infiltration of the base itself, and we’re planning it for as early as August. The team is to be determined. This is what you all have been training for. So. I hope you’re ready for a revolution.”

There’s a somber moment of silence, and then the cafeteria explodes in cheers.

Their faces seem to say ‘we’re ready’. Harry feels a strange sense of pride.

 


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the days before the revolution.

**august**

  


“You’re an asshole.”

Louis sinks his teeth into the place where his ear meets his jaw. “I’m sorry.”

Harry’s lucky he’s leant against the door to Louis’ bedroom; otherwise his knees would give out and he’d fall right to the floor.

“No you’re not.” Harry exhales shakily. “If you were you wouldn’t be so intent on getting me hot.”

“You’re already hot,” Louis says into his skin.  

Well. He’s not wrong.

They’re at the point in the summer when the heat has spread to _everything._ Aboveground isn’t quite enough for the swelter. It’s seeped in through the ground and in through the doors and the walls. Into their clothes and their hair and their _skin_.

The revolution goes into action in one week. They’re sweaty and exhausted and the heat this year is far worse than anything Harry remembers. It doesn’t help that the past month has been nothing but work, preparations and planning. Really, there’s been no time for anything other than a chaste kiss when they’re alone. If they haven’t been working, they’ve been eating or sleeping.

Of course, the last Sunday before they leave Louis decides is dedicated to rest. It’s not a bad idea. Until he pitches the idea of doing something that should be reserved to bedrooms being done in his office. And Harry, being the person he is, can’t really turn him down; not when Louis is flashing him his pretty eyes and gripping his waist with one hand while tugging at his hair with the other.

Poor Niall. He couldn’t have anticipated what he walked into.

So Harry hates Louis. A lot.

“What happened to being careful?” Harry asks. It comes out sounding a lot breathier than he wants it to because damn Louis slides a hand into his boxers.

“Fuck being careful,” Louis murmurs into his ear. Harry shivers.

Even though they’ve been doing all this for awhile now, Harry doesn’t question their relationship. So they’re _friends._ They don’t have to be anything other than that. Harry doesn’t want them to be anything other than that. (He’s thought about it a lot).

They exist. There aren’t any questions or changes. They work and they plan and they prepare. There are greater things to worry about.

Anyway, if August means Louis rubbing him off until he comes in his pants, Harry's not complaining.

 

*

 

Harry never could’ve anticipated how much work goes into planning a revolution.

The word doesn’t seem quite right. It feels like any other mission; there are just countless other scenarios and possibilities and ways it can go wrong. More lives to lose. More people to protect. More risk.

They’ve collected a fair number of manpower. The squads are all arranged by number and letter, and Louis has called for squads 1A through 2B. That makes fourteen soldiers. Plus Harry, Fionn--who’s insisted he take part--and Louis. Nick has taken on role as their first medic, while Jack stays back with Niall.

Niall is aggressively unhappy that he isn’t able to come on the mission. Very much so.

Even if he wasn’t disabled, he would still be required to stay back. Louis needs someone to run the Rebellion itself while they’re gone, and Niall is the next in line to do so. It doesn’t stop him from being unbearably bitter about everything.

There’s a countdown on the concrete wall of the cafeteria written in pastel chalk. It reads the number of days until the revolution, and it’s been there for the whole month. When the number was erased and replaced with a single digit for the first time, they were served what was called pizza but tasted more like soggy bread with ketchup. It felt festive, nonetheless, even though Harry still can’t figure out exactly what they’re celebrating.

But with every day that passes, the scowl on Niall’s face gets deeper, Louis’ muscles grow tenser, and Harry gets more and more terrified.

It’s not difficult to identify exactly what it is that’s scaring him so much. In a week, he could be reunited with his sister.

That, in itself, is fucking terrifying.

He has this awful, gut feeling that she’ll hate him. If she really does work for the government, she’ll know to resent him simply for his Rebel status. If she’s being held against her will...well. He’s really trying not to think about that.

Louis’ doing everything he can to console Harry. Take his mind off what could be the most difficult mission of his life. There’s plenty of kissing in this last week, even though it doesn’t help much. It’s a great distraction at the time, but there’s always that itch under Harry’s skin. Like he’s throwing himself into something he’s not ready for.

He could see Gemma. After more than six years, they could see each other again. Harry could die before he even _gets_ to her. He doesn’t even know the amount of soldiers and reinforcement they’ll have in Cardiff. Louis doesn’t know, either. Nobody does.

Harry prays that Ben knew what he was talking about. Otherwise, they’re fucked.

And so he vows that no matter what happens, he won’t let anyone die. Even if it means never seeing his sister again, or losing his own life in the process, he doesn’t think he can bear losing Louis. That would probably kill him by itself.

At least Niall will be safe. He still glares daggers at anyone who mentions the revolution and spends a good amount of time sulking, but it’s for the best.

There are four days left until they leave, and Harry feels so jumpy he thinks he might bite anyone who touches him. Louis’ noticed; of course he has. He kind of notices everything about Harry. As well as this, they’ve started sleeping in the same room, in the same _bed._ Harry craves someone to touch and Louis needs someone to hold. They fit together perfectly.

 _Friends,_ Harry repeats to himself like a mantra while Louis’ body is curled around him and Harry’s fingers are tracing the side of his face. _Friends, friends, friends._

Louis pitches it one night. They’ve gone to bed earlier than usual and Harry’s certain they’ll do _something._ It’s been a rough day, to say the least. He’s so anxious he feels like he might explode, and he's vibrating with energy. Freshly showered, Louis perches on the edge of the bed beside where Harry’s pulling on a pajama shirt.

_Friends._

“Got a question,” Louis says casually, rubbing a towel over his damp hair.

Harry hums, pulling socks on.

“I was, uh, wondering. If you wanted to do anything tonight…?”

Harry tilts his head. “Yeah. Okay.”

Louis tosses the towel away and turns to face him. “I mean. We’ve kind of been doing the same thing for a while. Did you wanna…?”

“What?” Harry asks slowly.

“Like.” Louis blushes and scratches the back of his neck. “I dunno. I was hoping we could. Actually have sex? Maybe?”

Harry’s heart lurches into his throat.

“Oh,” he manages to say.

“We don’t have to,” Louis reminds him quickly. “But...if you want to. I would want to.”

Swallowing, Harry tries to look anywhere other than Louis’ face. He _should_ want to, is the thing. Part of him definitely wants to. The other part of him can’t forget his past, no matter how hard he tries.

“Um. I...don’t know. Louis.” There’s a lot of commitment that comes with _sex._ It’s so intimate and holds more change than Harry might be ready for. Change everything Harry’s gotten so used to.

“We don’t have to,” Louis says again kindly. “I just thought I’d suggest it. We’ve been doing this for a while, love.” _Love._ “Whatever you want, yeah?”

Harry takes a deep breath. For starters, he’s never thought of himself as...a _top._ The word makes him a little squeamish. He doesn’t think he’s the kind of person to take control like that. Anyway, everything that he and Louis have done, Louis has _advocated_. It’s just how they work. Which means Harry will bottom, he’ll _have_ to, and the last time he did anything like that…

“No,” Harry says automatically. “It’s okay. We can.”

“Are you sure?” Louis is too sweet to him. “I don’t want you to feel like...I dunno. I’m pressuring you. Because I’m not. I would never do that. You know that, right?”

“I know. I want to.” Harry _thinks_ he wants to. That’s the same thing, isn’t it?

Louis smiles, a small soft movement that makes Harry's heart melt. “C’mere. Lemme kiss you.”

Harry crawls over to his side of the bed and slides his leg over Louis’ lap, putting a finger under his chin to guide their mouths together. It’s warm and nice and free of pressure, so Harry’s not sure why he has a pit steadily forming in his stomach.

“You wanna lie down?” Louis breathes out when the kiss breaks for a second.

“Okay,” Harry whispers, but doesn’t move. Louis huffs a laugh against his lips and flips them over so Harry’s back is pressed to the mattress.

“Head on the pillow, H,” Louis instructs, standing from the bed and reaching into the bedside drawer where he withdraws that same container of Vaseline. There’s a purpose behind it now. Harry lays back against the pillow and waits for the nerves to subside. They don’t. He figures that’s just part of what they’re about to do, because he’s never gone this far before. Him and Z didn’t even come close. And now Louis is hovering over him stripping off his shirt. How did he get here?

“Are you okay?” Louis stops to check in, eyes concerned and thoughtful. Harry likes him _so much._

“Yeah.” Harry feels like his muscles don’t work. Like he’s flying. And yet the pit of nerves won’t go away.

“Clothes off?”

“Yeah,” he repeats. “Please.”

Louis leans down and lifts the hem of Harry’s top up and over his head. A bit of hair falls over Louis’ face, and Harry brushes it away with his fingertips.

“You’re beautiful,” Louis whispers, and then leans down and kisses him again.

Harry’s not totally sure how they both end up with their pants off, but it’s all fluid and every movement bleeds into the next and even though there’s sweat beading at his hairline Louis has this magic way of making him feel perfect. Not too hot, not too cold. Just perfect.

When Louis wraps his fingers around Harry all the breath is knocked from his lungs and all he can think is, do they have to go any further? Does this have to be _more_ ? Does he really want this _now_?

 _I want this_ , he tells himself firmly as Louis mouths along his neck and his hand inches lower and Harry _moans_ but there’s something not quite right. _I want this._

Then Louis’ hand moves lower still, his finger moves a bit, and Harry panics.

“Louis,” he gets out, strained, and voice sounding much unlike his own. “I can’t.”

Instantly, Louis pulls back, and he looks so horribly guilty Harry only feels worse.

“I’m sorry,” Louis says. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

“No.” Harry winces. He’s so stupid. “I’m sorry. I...should’ve. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Here.” Louis hands him his shirt but stops straddling him and moves to the edge of the bed, like he’s scared to touch. Harry’s so stupid. “Are...are you okay?”

Harry takes the shirt but only spreads it over his lap to cover himself. “Yeah. I...no. Not really.”

Louis looks broken and at an utter loss for words. “Fuck,” he says again. “Do you need anything? I’m so sorry. Shit. I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong,” Harry tells him. “Can we…? Under the covers? Please?” His sentences are broken too. The mood is gone. He’s ruined everything.

“Of course,” Louis says without thinking, pulling back the blankets for Harry to slide underneath. He gets in himself once Harry is settled, but Harry doesn’t lay down or get comfortable. His back curves over and he hugs the comforter close to his chest like it'll swallow him up and absorb all his pain as if it was never even there. Louis wraps his arm around Harry’s shoulders tentatively.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers. It’s really the only thing he can think to say.

“Don’t be. Please.” Louis brushes his lips over the side of Harry’s face. “What’s wrong? You don’t have to tell me. I’m an idiot.”

“No. You’re not. I…” Harry sighs shakily. Invisible hands claw at his back, and it takes all of his energy to stop himself from shaking off Louis’ arm. “Um. So, at camp. These men. They...thought they would stop me from being gay if they…” He squeezes his eyes shut and Louis swears under his breath.

“You don’t have to tell me, Harry. Not if you’re not ready.”

“I want to,” Harry says. “You deserve to know.” He’s lucky he’s able to squeeze the comforter in his fists, or else his nails would’ve pierced the skin of his palm by now. “They didn’t do it often, you know? And it was always a secret. The guards kept it from the higher-ups. They weren’t allowed to be doing it, so they’d get in trouble. Which is why they never exposed me for...being gay.”

“Shit,” Louis says, and it comes out sounding scratchy and tearful.

“They’d do it as long as they got something good out of it,” Harry continues, eyes watering and voice cracking. “It was fucked up. I’m sorry. I wish we could…” He doesn’t have to finish. Louis takes Harry's hand from it’s furious grip around the blanket and holds it in his own, pressing a kiss to Harry’s knuckles.

“They fucked you up,” Louis says. Harry’s never heard him sound like this before. “I’m so fucking sorry. Jesus, you just...you deserve so much. I wanna give that to you, you know? I’m so stupid. I’m so sorry, Harry.’”

“Don’t be,” Harry says. “Please.”

Louis touches his face to Harry’s shoulder. It’s wet.

They stay like that for a while.

 

*

 

“What are we?” Louis whispers through the dark when they’re curled up against each other.

“I don’t know,” Harry replies honestly.

 

*

 

Two more days go by. The revolution approaches. The atmosphere gets heavier and there’s a thick black cloud of a terrible mood looming over everyone.

Niall is the worst. He’s grumpy, and there’s a permanent scowl creased into his features. He complains about _everything_ , and even when Louis snaps at him to stop, he storms from the room with a red face. Harry decides to confront him about it, cutting in front of him in the lunch line and frowning at him disapprovingly.

“What’s your problem?”

The first thing Niall does is scoff, but Harry knows him well enough to decipher the hurt in his eyes.

“I know you want to come, but you can’t. You get that, right?”

Niall’s eyes find the countdown on the wall. _Three._ Three days until their lives are changed. The number undermines the extremity of what they’re about to do. He doesn’t say anything.

“Your knee, Niall, you--”

“I know I’m a bloody cripple, H,” Niall snaps, and Harry takes a step back in shock. “I don’t need you to remind me.”

“I wasn’t,” Harry says quickly. “I’m sorry.” He feels terrible. The knowledge that if it weren’t for him, Niall would still be walking properly, makes it even worse.

Something in Niall gives, and his shoulders deflate, sighing and turning his gaze downwards. “No. I...I know I can’t. It just fuckin’ kills, you know?” The line moves forward. “I don’t wanna think of you guys tossing yourself into a government building. It’s fucked up.”

“We’ve planned out everything,” Harry says. “There’s not a thing that can go wrong.”

“There’s lots that can go wrong,” Niall tells him frankly. “They could have an army waiting for you. Their building could be so fortified there’s no way in. They could have machine guns.”

“Not comforting.”

Niall laughs for the first time in a while, a humorless, forced bark of a sound. “I know. I’m sorry, man. You guys’ll do great. I promise I’ll stop being an asshole about everything. Think I just needed someone to knock some sense into me.”

“I love you,” Harry says without thinking. “And I’m sorry.”

Niall grins at him and tousles his hair. “Love you too. Would you mind moving down? I haven’t eaten in six hours.”

 

*

 

The day before they leave is one of the hardest things Harry’s ever had to go through.

That evening, dinner is consumed early. There’s a heavy blanket of silence and fear and tension over every single person who walks through the halls. No chatter. No conversation. No laughter; not even a whisper or a smile. They all meet in the conference room Harry remembers from Tom’s sentencing, tables pushed together in a big rectangle.

Louis, Harry, Niall, and Jack sit at one end alone. The opposite sides are occupied by the people who will go on the mission to Cardiff; Harry knows Liam, Nick, and recognizes Leigh. He knows Fionn and he recognizes a couple others but the other eight or so are strangers to him. He’ll have to protect them with his life.

 _Louis_ will have to protect them with his life. Harry can’t bear the thought of losing him.

There’s a stack of paper on the table in front of them. They all sit in silence for five tantalizingly long minutes before Louis spreads them out and clears his throat.

“So. Tomorrow is our revolution.”

A few people shift in their chairs.

“I wanna start off by thanking you all for your help in the past month. It hasn’t been easy. We’re all tired but I hope we’re ready to fight. There’s a lot we won’t be able to anticipate, so I’d like to go over the plan again.” There aren’t any protests. Louis looks just as nervous as everybody else.

“First thing in the morning, at 6am sharp, two trucks will take squads D, C, and B on the two hour drive to just outside Cardiff. You’ll stop, collect your weaponry, and Liam, who is leading this group, will take headcount. He’ll count twelve. If anyone, in any situation, is missing or separated, you contact me by radio. All of you have earpieces, so make sure to keep them on, and stay in contact. Understand?”

“Yes,” they all reply collectively.

“Good.” Louis takes a deep breath, and picks up a map to pass around. “Look closely. You’ll each have a copy for tomorrow, but I want to make sure you know exactly where you’re to be positioned. Your vantage points are scattered around the building, but be careful. If there are any guards on patrol where you’re supposed to be positioned, you kill. Remember your partner; being in pairs is the safest.”

The map is passed around and examined closely. Harry’s stared at it so much these past few days the image is branded into his brain.

“So you will all arrive around eight, and continue on foot to your vantage points. Me, Harry, Jack, Liam, and Nick will leave at seven by helicopter, so when we get there you’ll all be stationed already. We’ll land outside where you’re parked to keep a low profile, and continue to the main doors. You’re our defense, which means we’re relying on you to give us the locations of the guards so we can take them down. Got it?”

“Yes,” they say again.

“Good.” Louis pauses and takes a deep breath. “So we get inside. Your earpieces stay on at all times, hear me? But we’ll take it from there. As long as you’re covering all entrances, we’ll be okay.

“The ultimate mission is to kill everyone in that building. Everyone of those government fucks who destroyed our lives. We want them dead. None of them are innocent. They each have a role in the camps and in our oppression. If any happen to wander out, shoot to kill. If you are unable to do so, do everything you can to ensure they can’t escape the area. It’s enclosed in trees, which makes it easier to sneak away. Don’t let them.

“When we’re done in the building, I will contact you myself. Do not follow anyone else’s command.”

There’s another long, sobering silence. The reality of what they’re about to do really hits them now. Six months ago, Harry never would’ve thought he’d be co-leading a revolution against the government. Six months ago, he would’ve given anything for the Rebellion to drop off the face of the earth. Six months ago, the idea of meeting another man like him was impossible.

He hopes Gemma’s proud of him. Wherever she is.

“For the first group, your medic is Matty,” Louis adds. “I hope none of you end up needing him.” He exhales, looking down at the disarray of papers beneath him. Harry takes his hand under the table and squeezes it.

“I just want you all to know,” Louis says, voice breaking, “That I’m incredibly grateful to be able to work with you. Thank you for everything. And no matter what happens tomorrow, just know that I have complete trust in you all. I really believe this is it. This is everything we’ve been working towards for the past ten years. Good luck tomorrow. Stay safe.”

Liam puts his hand in the air slowly. “I...I have a question.”

Louis nods at him. Harry doesn’t trust his own voice either. This may be scarier than anything he’s ever done. He has so much to lose.

“Can we pray? Together?”

If it was any other situation, Harry might laugh. He’s not religious, though his parents were; that part of him was lost a long time ago. If someone suggested this at camp, they would’ve been made fun of. Niall might’ve laughed as well. Nobody laughs here. It’s not the slightest bit amusing.

“I’ve not been taught,” Liam explains quickly. “I’m not sure I’ve ever done it right. But...we should. We need all the help we can get, right?”

“Yeah,” Louis says softly after a moment. “I agree.”

A small smile appears on Liam’s face. “We join hands.” He puts both of his over the table, taking Nick’s hand in his own and reaching for Jack’s. Slowly, reluctantly, everybody reaches for each other’s fingers, squeezing tightly and surely. Harry holds Niall’s hand in his right and Louis’ in his left, over the table now. Nobody seems to find it weird or invasive. Harry closes his eyes.

“Dear God,” Liam says, a little awkwardly. Harry isn’t sure if anyone else is closing their eyes. He doesn’t want to open them. “Please look after us tomorrow. Please ensure our safety. Thank you for giving us the opportunity to save lives and protect people, and thank you for giving us strength to go on this mission. We hope you can protect us in return. We...really need it right now.” He stops to breathe. “Amen.”

They all breathe together.

“Amen.”

It’s possibly the most beautiful thing Harry’s ever experienced.

They don’t release each other’s hands for a long while. Harry likes to think they’re giving each other strength. It’s kind of funny how quickly he’s found a home with the Rebellion.

  



	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the rebels disembark.

It’s no surprise that neither of them get any sleep that night.

Harry finds his mind wandering as he drifts in and out of restless fits of dozing. Almost comically, he keeps coming back to the confusion of why Nick, Liam, and Niall haven’t questioned him about why he hasn’t been sleeping in the squad cabin. There's something about that that's almost hysterical. Harry pins it on delirium.

He has no idea what time it is when Louis sits up and switches the bedside lamp on, washing the room in dim yellow light.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks, words slurred together with sleep. Not that he’s been sleeping.

“No point in trying to get any rest,” Louis replies simply. Harry runs his fingers over Louis’ bare back.

“You should try,” Harry says. “Rest your mind. You body.”

“It’ll all be over soon. I’ll be okay.” The look on his face says otherwise. “In case anything happens tomorrow, I just want you to know that--”

“No.” Harry cuts him off before he can finish. “Don’t talk like that. Please.”

Louis turns his face down so their eyes meet. His eyes are all shiny blue and glittering. He shaved a couple nights ago, so there are only the lines of shadow on his chin and jaw. Harry’s never seen someone so beautiful. For the first time in a long one, Z isn’t at the forefront of his mind. It’s just Louis.

There’s an inkling, a trace of something in Harry's chest that he feels has been blooming steadily for a while. It’s reached a point where he’s worried. Worried that his feelings towards Louis have grown into something dangerous.

All this time, he hasn’t questioned a thing they’ve done. The kissing and the things other than kissing and the hand holding and the fondness. No matter how much Harry thinks the word _friend,_ the feeling in his chest doesn’t go away.

“Harry,” Louis says. “Listen to me, yeah?”

Harry just watches him, like that’s an answer.

“We don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. And I...I just need you to know something. In case something happens to one of us.”

“Don’t,” Harry pleads.

Louis closes his eyes. “I...I’m in love with you. Harry.”

A fiery burst of _something_ surges up in Harry’s chest and his eyes water. “Louis…”

“I don’t expect you to say it back,” Louis says hollowly. “Just...I needed you to know. Just in case.”

Harry doesn’t have it in him to say it back. Not yet. Not before tomorrow.

But he pulls Louis down into his arms and hugs him tightly, hoping everything he feels is poured into the embrace.

Louis is in love with him. Louis loves him.

“Thank you,” Harry whispers into his hair. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

 

*

 

They watch the first group of soldiers leave.

It’s a small ceremony. First they salute Louis, because it must feel like the right thing to do, but Louis shakes his head and gives each of them a hug. That’s probably the most emotional thing that happens; faces stony, they pile into their two trucks and aboveground, breathing in the hot, dry air of London, Harry, Louis, and Niall watch them drive away.

Before they go back down the stairs, back down the track, back in through the Rebellion’s doors, Harry takes Louis’ hand. He forgets, for a moment, that Niall’s standing right there.

“So,” Niall speaks up. “You two are a thing then.”

It’s not a question. He’s always thought Niall knows him better than he knows himself.

“Um.” They both look down at their hands, then at each other.

“I guess so,” Louis says. He looks at Harry like Harry is everything.

They’re ready.

 

*

 

Niall has tears in his eyes.

Louis lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. The door to the rails is closed, and Nick’s hand is poised on the handle. “You take care while we’re gone, yeah?” Louis tells Niall. “Look after the Rebellion for me.”

“Of course,” Niall says, voice breaking. “I don’t want you guys to worry about us. I’ll have everything under control. You just think about yourselves out there. And fuckin’ hell, be careful.”

“We will,” Harry says from over Louis’ shoulder. “We’ll let you know if anything happens.”

“Thank you.” Niall fishes a tissue out of his pocket and blows his nose into it. Behind Harry are Liam, Nick, and Jack. They’re waiting. It’s time to leave. “Take care. All of ya’. If you don’t come back in one piece God knows what I’ll do.”

Louis pulls him into a hug, and steps back so Harry can do the same.

“Love you,” Harry says into his ear. “Remember that.”

“Love you,” Niall answers, muffled by the fabric of Harry’s shirt. “You remember that. Get your ass home.”

“Will do.”

Finally, and painstakingly, Harry breaks away from Niall’s embrace. He’s turning to follow his squad out the door when the sound of tiny footsteps gets close and a child’s voice shouts, “ _Wait!_ ”

They all spin around.

“May, what the hell are you doing here?” Niall bursts out incredulously.

“I just wanted to give something to Harry,” she pants, exerted from running. Her hair’s in two pigtails, one side coming loose, and she’s wearing a pink sundress that’s far too big for her. She scurries up to Harry and tugs at his sleeve until he crouches down in front of her.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” Harry tells her seriously. She rolls her eyes. She’s six years old. How does she even manage to do that?

“I had to give this to you.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a dried, pressed yellow flower, holding it out to him gingerly. “My daddy gave it to me. It’s from the outside. I want you to have it.”

“May…” he begins reluctantly, but she puts the flower right into his palm.

“It’s for good luck,” she explains firmly. “If you keep it safe then you’ll be safe too. Kind of like the fountain in your story, except this is for protection.”

He looks at it closely. It looks so fragile it could disintegrate in his hand. May flings her arms around his neck, almost knocking it over.

“Be careful out there,” she whispers to him. “Watch out for monsters.”

Harry wraps his arm around her tightly. “Thank you. I’ll keep it safe and bring it back. I promise.”

“Thanks for telling me about the outside, too. I know that story was about you.”

He blinks at her.

She grins at him. “I need to go. Bye, guys! Good luck!” The squad waves at her; Louis blows her a kiss. Then she takes off in a sprint back down the hallway.

“I’ve got no fuckin’ idea how she found her way to the doors,” Niall announces. “I swear she’s some kind of psychic.” He glances down at his watch. Harry tucks the flower into the breast pocket of his jacket.

“It’s seven,” Louis says. “Time to go.”

They all breathe in one last big gulp of Rebellion air and hoist their rifles up a little higher on their shoulders. Even from here, Harry can feel the heat emanating from outside.

Niall sighs. “Good luck, lads. Stay safe.”

They don’t say anything else. Just give him one last nod of acknowledgement and thanks. Then, with a quiet squeal, Nick pushes the door open, and they step out onto the rails.

 

*

 

It’s a ten minute walk to where the helicopter is.

“We’ve got two,” Louis explains to Harry in the trek towards the storage warehouse. “There are electric fences all round the parking lot where the helis are kept. Takes up a fair amount of power but it’s worth it. Ben didn’t like them. Said he was scared of heights.” He huffs out a humorless laugh. “I’ve got the key to the warehouse. We just need to get in, walk through, and that’s that.”

“Who’s piloting?” Harry asks.

“Nick.”

Nick looks over his shoulder. “Huh?”

“You’re the pilot.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

The heat is terrible. They’re all sweating buckets, and a water bottle each doesn’t seem like nearly enough to keep them hydrated for the whole day. Harry hasn’t drank much. His years as a survivor made it easy to withstand his human impulses. The others aren’t doing so well. Liam’s already drained half of his by the time they get to the warehouse.

Louis wiggles a key into the big metal door and pushes it open. Its hinges are creaky and stiff from lack of use, but inside the warehouse is cool and dark. Harry presses his palms to the cold wall and touches his palms to his forehead, sighing.

Liam, who’s now leading the way, flicks on a flashlight. There’s a bad smell in the air.

“Do we have to worry about survivors?” Harry asks quietly.

“No. They were exterminated a long time ago, with the founding of the Rebellion.” Louis gives him a side glance. “Last survivors in the area were the raiders, but they came from elsewhere. Before that, you were the only one.”

He forgets a lot that he used to be the Rebellion’s enemy. Things really have changed.

The walk through the building is short, so Harry savors it. Lets the cool air seep back into his skin and dry the sweat at his hairline. “I hope you’re ready to step out into the sun again,” Liam calls back. There’s a big garage door against the back wall, and Liam bends over to grab the handle. Louis and Nick rush to his sides to help.

When the door is pulled up, their faces are washed with sunlight and drowned in heat. Louis lets go of the handle, slides underneath, and grabs it from the other side so the rest of them can crawl underneath.

Harry thinks he burns his hands against the overheated asphalt. When he looks down at them, they’re bright red from just touching the ground for a few seconds.

“I hate this fucking weather,” Nick grunts. When Harry stands up and dusts his clothes off, he sees the helicopters. They’re bigger in person than they look in books and photographs.

“What’re the spinny things called again?” Harry asks to no one in particular.

“Propellers,” Nick tells him. Louis tosses him a set of keys and he unlocks the pilot’s side door manually. “It’ll get pretty loud. So prepare yourself.”

“In we go, lads,” Louis says, opening the doors. Harry slides into a seat and buckles himself in. He feels a little sick. It sinks in now just how high they’re going to get. They’re vulnerable in the open air. They’ll be a few hundred feet above the ground, open to gunfire, not to mention Harry’s never been airborne in his _life._

They all get seated and settled, and Liam, beside him, notices him pinching the spot in between his thumb and forefinger. “You alright, mate?”

Harry grimaces and nods.

“Never flown before?”

Harry shakes his head. When have _they_ had the opportunity to fly?

“Don’t worry. Nick’s really experienced. Went to flight school for the army before the coup. Isn’t that right, Nick?”

“You don’t need to worry about a thing,” Nick affirms. Louis sits beside Nick in the front, and Harry desperately wants to reach out and hold his hand. “I flew jets and planes in the army, back in my twenties. Been doing this for ten years.”

Harry doesn’t reply. Just tries to focus on not puking.

“Alright, starting the engine now.” Nick twists the key in it’s slot, and slowly, the aircraft starts to life. A low rumble forms below them, and when Harry looks up, the propellers begin to spin, gradual at first, and then increasingly faster until, as if weightless, the helicopter lifts off the ground.

“Holy shit,” Harry exclaims shamelessly, watching through the window as the ground pulls farther away from them. It’s loud. Really loud.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Liam says brightly. “Sometimes we take the helis on long distance missions. My parents were in the air force during the third war. I used to go on planes all the time.” Harry remembers when he didn’t like Liam for his constant cheeriness. Now, Harry doesn’t think he’s ever had so much respect for someone.

“This is insane,” Harry replies breathlessly. The buildings below them are so tiny. Harry can see _everything_. All the roofs and the gardens and the trees and the glittering pavement in the sun. “Why doesn’t the helicopter fall? What keeps it up? How high can it go, anyway? How does it propel itself forward?”

Louis laughs. “It just does. Don’t question it. Your brain will hurt.”

All traces of nausea disappeared, Harry sighs and leans back in his seat. The sound of the propellers isn’t so deafening now, and as London flashes by underneath them, there’s nothing they can do but relax. It’s impossible to maintain any kind of conversation. Harry likes helicopters for that reason.

He’s put a lot of concentration into not getting his hopes up that he’ll actually find Gemma. In all truthfulness, he’s been telling himself they _won’t_ find her so that it’s easier to deal with the loss. This is really his only chance. If they don’t find her now, he’ll have no choice but to let her go. And if he lets his sister go, he lets a substantial chunk of his life go. He’s not ready to do that. He doesn't want to say goodbye to her.

Harry leans his forehead against the window and stares down below them as the city turns to little cottages and the cottages turn to farms and the farms turn to planes and forests. Three hours. That’s time to rest. Time to think. Liam’s just started passing around some dried jerky when Harry dozes off without realizing.

 

*

 

_They’d spent days traveling._

_Leeds hadn’t been kind. Gemma’s bag had been snatched a few days before; they’d managed to salvage some necessities from abandoned shops but she was mostly upset about losing her books. The area was packed full of gang violence and criminal activity--not that there was anything left to regulate law._

_She kept insisting she knew where they were going. Harry was doubtful. He may have been only fifteen but he was smart, and he knew how to protect the two of them. He knew Gemma had lied to him in order to keep him safe, to keep him from worrying. But he’d passed the childish stage. He was nearly an adult, now. Fifteen years old was old enough to join a political party._

_(Gemma had banned him from doing so. She never outright said she supported the government, but having ties with an anti-governmental organization would pin a target on their backs. As if they didn’t have enough to worry about.)_

_This time in Leeds was different, though. They were here with a purpose. Because only recently, Gemma had discovered the address of a distant relative, a second cousin of their father’s step-brother. They didn’t really know what they were going for. Their distant relative wasn’t even expecting them. Chances were, they wouldn’t even be let in. But they had to do something. They had no family left, anyway. What did they have to lose? They had no food, no money. Only each other._

_The apartment building was the kind of place they wanted to stay away from. There were men loitering outside, passing around the stub of a cigarette and laughing. Harry didn’t like the way their eyes raked over his sister. He didn’t like that at all._

_“Going in?” one of them said, blocking the entrance when they tried to go inside._

_“Yes,” Gemma said curtly. “Excuse us.” She was seventeen. A teenager. These men were far older than the two of them combined._

_“What are you gonna give us?” the man said. “This here is our building.”_

_“What are you talking about?” Harry asked defensively, stepping up to Gemma’s side. He was old enough, he thought._

_“Well, little boy, we’re gonna need something in return. If you want to enter our building, you’ve better give your shit up for grabs or these doors are staying locked.”_

_Behind the man, the door opened, and a woman’s face peered out._

_“Horatio,” she scolded. “Leave these poor children alone.” She stepped back for them to enter. “Come in, come in.”_

_The man scowled, but didn’t argue. He backed off slowly. Harry noticed Gemma’s hands shaking._

_“How can I help you?” the lady asked kindly once they were inside._

_“We, uh.” Gemma pulled out an ID. “We’re looking for a couple with the surname ‘Twist’? We’ve been told they live here.”_

_The woman’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t look so friendly anymore._

_“Why?”_

_“Well, we’re distant relatives. They’re supposed to be our father’s step brother’s second cousin. It sounds silly, I know. But we were hoping someone could tell us where we can find them.”_

_The lady took the ID from Gemma’s hand and examined it closely._

_“Follow me,” she said finally._

_That’s how they ended up with an orphaned infant and an empty apartment for them to live in._

 

*

 

“Harry.”

He jerks awake. There’s a mark on his forehead; the window has fogged up from his breath.

“We’re half an hour away,” Liam tells him. “Thought you’d want to know.”

Harry sniffs thickly. “Yeah. Thanks.”

There’s an odd pressure in his ears. They’re flying over some trees right now, and he’s grown so used to the sound of the propellers everything else seems a bit muffled. He yawns. His rifle has probably pressed a bruise into his side.

“How are we for fuel?” Louis asks Nick.

“Fine,” Nick replies. “We’ll be fine.”

“Anyone else feeling this nervous?” Jack pipes up. He looks a bit green.

“We’re all fucking terrified,” Louis says with a tone of lightness that makes Harry wonder if he’s telling the truth. “It’ll all be over soon, though. When we get back you can all take the longest showers you want.”

Liam sighs dreamily. “That sounds nice.”

“Where are we now?” Harry asks.

“Coming up to Caerphilly,” Nick says. “We’re close.”

Fuck.

“I’ve never actually been to Wales,” Liam says conversationally. “I’ve been to Bristol! Which is close. Wolverhampton’s fairly close, too.” He nudges Harry. “That’s where I was--”

There’s the sound of a gunshot, and the helicopter jerks.

“What the fuck was that?” Jack shouts.

“Was that a bullet?” The blood drains from Liam’s face.

“Fuck,” Louis says. “Fuck. Nick? What the fuck?”

“I don’t know,” Nick yells. “I’m not getting any signals. Shit. Was it a bullet? Could it have been a bullet?”

Harry tries to steady his breathing. This can’t be happening. They’re so close. They’re almost there. He wonders if he’s still dreaming, and pinches his thigh hard enough to make his eyes water. Nothing happens.

Louis curses and rolls down his window, sticking his head out.

“Does anyone smell that?” Liam sounds terrified.

“Fuck!” Louis shouts again. “Smoke! Nick! The tail is smoking! Your tail’s been shot!”

“It was a bullet,” Harry says blankly. “Is that possible?”

“You bet your fucking ass it’s possible!” Louis is practically screaming over the sound of the propellers and the engine combined. He doesn’t say anything for a moment and leans out further.

“Be careful,” Jack warns loudly.

“Jesus,” they hear Louis say, even though his head’s outside the helicopter itself. “Nick. They got the engine.”

Harry’s heart stops.

“Why is the tail smoking if they got the engine?” Jack bursts out.

“I don’t know!” Louis shouts. “Nick? What do we do?”

Nick shakes his head over and over, like he’s trying to convince himself this isn’t real. “I don’t know. Lou, I have no...I don’t know.”

“You’re the pilot!” Louis tells him, bewildered. “Do we have to land?”

“I can’t fucking land safely!” Nick explodes. “Do you think there’s any way I can land in fucking forestry?”

“Don’t they train you for this kind of shit?” Jack accuses. “You, a pilot, can’t land in a forest?”

Harry presses his face against the window and looks up, trying to ignore the arguing. He’s just in time to watch the propellers begin to slow their rotation.

“I don’t think we have much choice,” Harry says shakily, just as everything falls silent.

“Fuck,” Nick says.

“Are we gonna crash?” cries Liam.

Louis clutches the side of his seat. Harry puts his hands on the ceiling, feels the emptiness through the metal.

“Prepare for impact,” Nick says. It’s like everything’s moving in slow motion. Is this how he dies? Harry is sure he’ll never get the chance to see his sister again. Niall. May. The rest of the children. Fionn. His cousin.

He’ll never get the chance to tell Louis he loves him too.

The helicopter begins to fall. They’re high enough Harry has time to watch the ground get closer, the trees get bigger. He can’t decide whether to watch or close his eyes. “ _Prepare for impact!_ ” Nick roars, just before the aircraft collides and tangles in branches and leaves, and the jolt of the hit sends everything plunging into immense darkness.

  



	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cardiff pt 1.

It happens all at once.

Harry takes in a gasping breath of air and opens his eyes to a searing pain in his side and green all around him, just as a creak of tearing metal sounds from above. There’s hot blood dripping down the side of his face and into his mouth. The ground, soft and cushiony below him. A twig pokes him in the back.

He wiggles his fingers, then his toes. Clumsily, he fumbles at his hair, trying to feel for the source of the blood, and finds a small shard of glass bedded in the skin of his temple. He barely feels the pain when he pulls it out gently. He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out the tiny flower May had given him.

It disintegrates in his palm.

 _Louis,_ he thinks, and bolts upright. The skin of his side stings. When he looks down at his shirt, he sees flecks of metal and debris stuck into his own flesh. There’s too much to get out by himself, too much damage to be repairable.

“Louis,” he calls out hoarsely into the emptiness of the forest.

He looks up. There, sideways, is the helicopter, wedged in between two trees and caught up in a tangle of branches. It looks unstable, like it could fall on him at any moment. He gets onto his knees slowly and crawls out of the shadow of the aircraft.

Then he hears a cough from somewhere behind him.

If he squints through the leaves and branches, he can make out a still body, splayed out in the dirt. All his muscles feel stiff and sore, but he forces himself back onto his knees and scrabbles through what looks and feels like crumbled glass to get there. When he looks down at his hands, they’re raw and bleeding, all shredded and cut up.

It’s Jack. Harry’s close enough to stick his arm out and grab the man’s wrist.

“Jack,” he rasps. “Jack? Can you hear me?”

Jack’s eyes flutter open and drift into focus until they settle on Harry’s face.

“Are you hurt?”

Breathing heavily, Jack looks down at his ankle. “I think so.” His voice is rough. “Fuck. Where are the others?”

“I’m gonna find them.”

Harry grips the bark of a tree and pulls himself up, wincing. Jack coughs again. Harry staggers further into the woods, stumbles, and stops his fall by jarring his hand against another tree. A stab of pain rockets up his arm.

“Louis?” he calls out weakly. “Liam? Nick?”

“Harry!” says a voice through the trees. Liam. That’s Liam. Harry wants to curl up and sleep.

“Liam!”

He limps further towards Liam’s voice when the man himself appears a few feet in front of him. There’s a cut down the side of his cheek but other than that, he looks unscathed.

“Harry,” Liam breathes out in relief. “Christ. Your head is bleeding. Are you okay?”

“Where’s Louis?” Harry asks instead of answering.

“I found him. He’s back here.”

Harry forgets all his pain for a moment and pushes past Liam, turning around the brush of foliage so fast spots erupt in his vision. His eyes fall on Louis, leant up against a tree trunk, head tilted back and eyes closed.

“Louis,” Harry says, dropping to his knees, which sends another jolt of pain coursing through his body.

“I think he hit his head,” Liam tells him fearfully. “See the bruise next to his ear?"

Sure enough, there’s a big red welt just under Louis' hairline. Harry touches his neck, feather-light, and Louis’ eyes open slowly.

“Louis,” Harry repeats.

“Harry,” Louis whispers. His eyes are still blue--foggy, unfocused, but blue. “You’re okay.”

“I’m alright.” Louis blinks, and Liam crouches down next to Harry.

“I found Jack,” Harry says. “He’s alive. I think he’s hurt. I don’t know where Nick is.” Louis’ pupils are dilated; they go big, then small, then big again. Harry feels a stab of terror, right through the center of his chest. “Louis? Can you hear me?”

Louis clears his throat. His eyes have fallen on a point somewhere over Harry’s shoulder. “Y...yeah.” His eyelids close. “My head hurts, H.”

“Shit,” Liam gets out, and he looks like he might cry. “My earpiece is gone. Does anyone have theirs?”

In a horrible and sickening realization, Harry notices his is gone too. After a glance at Louis, he confirms that the three of them have no way of contact.

“I’m gonna go check on Jack,” Harry chokes. Mostly he can’t stand to see Louis drifting in and out of consciousness like this. “Stay with him?” Liam nods quickly, eyes wide and brown and innocent. Harry pushes himself to his feet.

“Shit, man,” Liam observes. “Your shirt’s got a lot of blood on it.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says, and begins his trek back to Jack, willing himself not to look back at Louis. He’s not even bleeding, but Harry has the terrible feeling that something horrible has happened to him. Like a bleeding on the inside, something that Harry can't see or fix.

He hates helicopters.

“Jack.” The man stirs and turns his head to look at where Harry’s approaching. Nothing’s happened to his legs, he thinks; he’s not sure why he’s limping. “Do you have your earpiece?”

Jack slides his hand up to his ear. There’s blood on his shirt, too. He shakes his head. “Gone.” He stares up at the sky, not really seeing.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry mutters. He looks around helplessly, as if that’ll help him find some way to fix everything that’s failed, and his eyes fall on a body to his left. It’s Nick, he realizes with a start. That's his head of hair. Where he lays is quite a distance away from where the pilot’s side of the helicopter is. A sickening feeling of dread forms in his stomach, but he begins his journey over. It’s like he can feel the debris tearing through his skin with every tiny movement.

“Nick,” Harry says. “Mate.”

Nick doesn’t move. Harry kneels down beside him. He has a bloody nose and his eyes are closed.

“Nick,” Harry says again. He presses two fingers to the pulsepoint at Nick’s throat, then, when Harry gets nothing, to his wrist. Nothing. He presses his ear to Nick’s chest.

Nothing.

Nick’s dead. The thought hits him a bit delayed. Nick has died. Nick is gone.

Harry crawls a foot away and pukes into the dirt.

“Harry!” Liam calls from where he’s stayed with Louis. “What’s happening?”

Harry doesn’t answer. _Can’t_ answer. He dry heaves for another moment and shifts back over to Nick, looking away as he moves his hand to Nick’s right ear. His earpiece is still there. Harry tugs it out and examines it closely. The wire connecting it to the sensor in his pocket is severed. Broken. They’re fucked.

Harry hears footsteps behind him, and looks up at where Liam’s standing, feet frozen to the ground, face white as a sheet.

“He’s dead,” Harry says numbly, void of emotion. “And his earpiece is broken.”

For the first time in a while, Harry wishes he was somewhere far away from the Rebellion. Wishes he had nothing to do with them. This may just be too much for him to cope with. This may just be his breaking point. They have no means of contact. They’re injured. Their helicopter has crashed and is mangled and caught in vines and branches. They’re as good as dead.

“What do we do?” Liam asks desperately.

Harry shakes his head with loss. “I don’t know.”

There’s the sound of another pair of footsteps. Maybe Jack has miraculously recovered. Harry turns around and forces himself up off the ground.

Jack is still.

 _Louis._ Harry abandons all caution, sprinting behind the foliage where he remembers Louis being.

There’s a person standing over him. Louis, weak and compliant, has his hands bound. Harry staggers back like he’s just been shot. The person turns to face Harry. Their face is covered by a mask.

They’ve failed their mission.

They shouldn’t have listened to Ben.

Normally, the slam of the butt of a gun into the back of his head is enough to knock him out cold instantly. Now, he feels it. He hears the horrible crack, feels his brain jolt in his skull, feels his body hit the ground heavily.

“Harry!” Liam screams from somewhere off to the side, and Harry is allowed one last moment of painful consciousness where all he’s able to feel is relief before his vision crowds with sparkles and fades into nothing.

 

*

 

He must be dreaming.

His mind feels numb. Like he’s floating. When he looks up, all he can see is white.

This might be what death feels like. It makes him sad. The emptiness of loss. That much he knows is real.

He has so much left he needs to do. He needs to see Gemma. He needs to see Niall.

He needs to tell Louis that he loves him.

Harry doesn’t know how long he’s been drifting in the state between awareness and oblivion. He doesn’t even have the energy or strength to move his head. He can’t feel any pain. He’d normally be unsettled by this but savors it while he can.

Strangely, he feels relieved. Like he doesn’t need to worry about finding his sister, or protecting the Rebellion. It makes his heart hurt to think of Louis living a life without him, but has the sense it’ll be better for both of them. Louis’ life will go on. He’ll lead the Rebellion to its victory. And Harry will just...cease to exist. Slowly and surely drift into the backburner of the universe. Louis will be okay. Harry will be okay, too.

He’s always been afraid of dying. It doesn’t seem so scary anymore.

The first time something happens that makes him think maybe he’s not as dead as he thinks he is, he shifts his hazy stare over to another corner of the ceiling. It’s a metal sounding screech that comes from somewhere in the distance, but he’s too tired to move his whole head.

The second time, it sounds like something’s rattling. A wall or something. He can feel its reverberations shaking where he lays; a cot? A bed? A table? He can’t quite tell.

The third time, there’s a distant click. Like a lock in a door. His eyes have been closed for a while, as if the sound has exhausted him. There’s a tiny sliding noise that he can’t place.

“He’s alive, right?”

Shit. Harry’s not dead. Sensation rushes into his body; cold, heat, the sticky, crusty feeling of dried blood on his skin. It’s like all it took was the acknowledgement that his muscles are still working to send him spiraling back into consciousness.

“Of course,” says another voice lowly. “He wouldn’t be able to tolerate otherwise.”

Tolerate what? Harry feels sick to his stomach. He wants to be numb again. There’s a stinging in his side. Is he even wearing clothes?

There’s nothing for another while. He feels like he’s in a nightmarish state of sleep. His eyes are closed, and he can’t open them, no matter how hard he tries, but he wants to wake up so he can try and do something about the awful stinging piercing his skin. It doesn’t feel the same as when he was paralyzed, not the helplessness and impossibility of lack of control. It’s different this time, like his brain is too tired to send the signals to the rest of his body.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been when he hears the sliding sound again, but it’s felt like forever. He wants to cry out, say something, move. Nothing happens. But if he listens hard enough, he can just make out vague shapes of words, mumbles, mutterings.

“His name’s Harry Styles,” says a voice. It’s close to him. Harry recognizes it, but can’t quite place the source. “He’s one of them.”

“He’s _the_ one.” That’s a new voice, further away. Harry wants to wake up. The pain has reached a point past his own toleration. “He’s like, everything.”

The first voice scoffs. It’s so frustratingly familiar. “He looks so plain. Not the hero we’ve been waiting for.”

“It’s not up to us,” the second voice replies seriously. “You know that.”

The air beside Harry’s arm is interrupted; his senses are heightened with something close to agony, and he feels the fabric of his sleeve shift slightly against his skin. A finger touches his temple and he tries to jerk away but _can’t._

“Harry,” says the first voice. “Can you hear me?” Something unsticks from his head. Fingers are snapped beside his ear. He’s not sure it’s meant maliciously, but it feels cruel.

“Might as well have smashed his head in,” the second voice says. “He’s on enough drugs he probably can’t feel a thing.”

They’re so, so wrong.

“It’s because he’s still on the damn sedative.” There’s a pulling feeling at the back of his hand. “I’ll come back later. Once it’s worn off.”

The air changes back to normal. The person backs away. The pain at his core, his side, his head, gets worse. He hears the sliding sound again.

He’s right back where he started. Only worse.

 

*

 

Harry has fallen asleep without realizing. Maybe it’s the combination of leftover trauma and exhaustion seeping through his blood, but he knows he’s awake because he opens his eyes.

There’s that white ceiling he’d been staring at for all that time, except more in focus now. He can _move._ He moves his arms to the side, and his right wrist falls off the bed--is it even a bed? It’s a hard table padded with a thin blanket. He turns his head to the right, and sees a long wall of crystal clear glass. Behind that is a hallway, and past that, another wall of glass.

Behind that wall of glass, he can make out a still body lying on a blanketed medical table, just like him, and attached to that body is a head of auburn hair he recognizes automatically.

He sits bolt upright, sending a stab of pain shooting through what appears to be every muscle in his body. Then he has to stop himself from laughing, because his muscles can’t _feel_ pain.

There are needles in his arms he tugs out gently; stickers and wires on his head and chest. He’s not wearing a shirt and he’s barefoot. The only thing he’s wearing is a thin pair of light blue cotton trousers that reach his knees.

He pushes himself to his feet, but his knees give immediately and he collapses. His palms sting when they slap against the plasticky tiles.

“Louis.” His voice is so hoarse it sounds like his vocal chords have been ripped out. He drags his body across the floor and presses his hand to the glass wall. The smack he gives it is weak and barely makes a sound.

Not even a thought goes through his head about where he is, or what’s happened to them. The only thing he can think about is Louis. Louis on that table. Louis with a concussion. Louis’ unfocused blue eyes.

“Louis,” he gets out hopelessly. His vision blurs. Pain twinges up his spine. He pats the glass one more time. Not that he expects anything to come out of it. In fact, he can already feel his consciousness fading. The pain is harsh. _Louis_ comes out in one more small whisper before he’s passing out, head pressed to the glass.

 

*

 

“Harry.”

He stirs.

“Styles. Wake up.”

It’s that familiar voice again. He thinks it’s stalking him. It’s unpleasant. Words too sharp.

Harry is pretty sure he’s on the table again, but it barely takes a second for him to realize that this time, his wrists and ankles are restrained. As if he’d actually have a way out of... _wherever_ he is. He still has no idea, and his mental capacity doesn’t feel particularly strong at the moment, so he chooses to save that contemplation for later.

“Styles. I know you can hear me.”

Almost begrudgingly, he forces his eyes open. Then he recoils, because the person in front of him isn’t someone he ever expected to see again.

Tom, from all those months ago, stares down at him; blue eyes sharp and stern, blonde hair crisp and combed. He’s wearing a clean white button-down shirt and Harry can’t see a single damn wrinkle.

“What the fuck,” he says, but it comes out sounding more like a hollow scrape.

“Bet you didn’t think you’d be seeing me again,” Tom says, looking slightly disgusted at the sight of him. It’s not _his_ fault he’s practically naked and hasn’t been patched up from the helicopter crash. He tilts his head down and peers at his side. The debris has been removed but the scrapes on his skin and forming scabs and bruises haven’t even been cleaned.

“Where am I?” Harry asks.

“You’ll find out. All in good time.” Tom reaches below the table and Harry feels the straps being tightened.

“You fucking--”

“I suggest you keep quiet,” Tom interrupts.

“Where’s--”

“Your friends are fine. We wouldn’t kill them without reason.”

“We? Who’s we?”

Tom gives him an icy glare that makes him fall silent. His head hurts, his side hurts, his wrists and hands are swollen from the tightness of the straps. The body in the room across from him, through the glass--Louis--hasn’t moved.

“Is he okay?” Harry dares to whisper. Tom looks down at him, emotionless.

“I’m not supposed to tell you anything.”

“I never did anything to you,” Harry pleads weakly. “I was nothing but kind to you. Please. Tom. You’re a Rebel.”

“I’m not,” Tom replies coolly, which just makes Harry more confused than he already is.

Then it hits him. So suddenly he has no idea how he didn’t realize it before.

He’s in Cardiff. At the government building. He must be.

That’s why the technology is so advanced. The sliding glass doors, the straps that Harry can’t even _try_ and tear through. The sleek tiled floors. The white ceiling. Tom’s crisp shirt, gelled hair. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone so well kempt.

The second thing that Harry realizes is that this means Tom’s been a spy all along. Tom also tried to kill him. Tom was _banished_ by the Rebellion for doing so. Did he mean for that to happen? Could that have been his plan the whole time?

“You’re...we’re...is this Cardiff?”

Tom eyes him closely. “I’m not supposed to tell you anything,” he repeats. Harry takes that as the answer he’s looking for.

If this really is Cardiff, which Harry has the gut instinct it is, that means the other squads are probably still positioned outside with no way of contact. Either that, or Harry, Louis, Jack, and Liam have been trapped in here for so long they’ve abandoned the mission.

He remembers Nick’s dead. His body’s probably still somewhere deep in the forest along with the remnants of their helicopter. Even though they weren’t close, Harry still feels the awful sense of loss for yet another person he wasn’t able to protect.

Poor Niall’s probably worried sick. Harry’s going to do everything to make sure he doesn’t have to run the Rebellion all by himself. He needs to get the four of them home.

“It’s a good thing you’re awake,” Tom tells him nonchalantly. “There’s much to be done.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Without answering, Tom reaches under the table and Harry hears the click of a button. For the first few seconds, nothing happens, and then the straps around Harry’s wrists and ankles start heating up, and the more he pulls at them in startled confusion the hotter and tighter they get.

“What did you do?” Harry asks breathlessly. He can feel his skin blistering with every passing second.

Tom crosses his arms and stares down at him, a sickeningly smug pleased expression on his face. “Did you ever tell Louis you were in love with him?”

Harry’s blood runs cold just as the heat of the straps is hiked up, sending sears of excruciating, burning pain through his veins.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Harry gets out through gritted teeth.

“You know. Before you left on your mission.”

“How do you know about the mission?”

“Answer the question, Styles.”

The pain does only get worse the more Harry fights it. Like the machine is reading him. A rage builds inside him and he pulls at them harder, even despite his better judgement.

“Did you tell Louis you were in love with him?” Tom repeats.

“Shut _up_ ,” Harry growls, squeezing his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see the disgusting look on Tom’s face and the spots bursting in his vision as the straps singe and pulse around his arms and legs over, and over, and over.

“The more you fight, the worse it’ll get,” Tom tells him nonchalantly. “Answer the question and we can get a move on with things.” Harry pulls harder, just out of spite, and something that feels like an electric shock rockets up his limbs, through his chest, and stays in his head, building and building and building until he thinks he might explode.

“Answer the question.”

“No,” Harry gasps, just as the pain reaches unbearable. “I didn’t. Tom. I didn’t. Please.”

Tom sighs with satisfaction, but takes his time pushing the button again. Moves slowly. Harry _hates_ him. His muscles start spasming right as he hears the click, and blissfully, the burning dies down and his veins cool. The skin on his wrists and ankles is undoubtedly burnt; when he glances down and blinks away the sweat that’s collected on his face, his skin is raw and shiny and a bright, angry red.

“You’re smarter than you look,” Tom tells him. Harry has no idea what that means, but he’s putting a lot of focus towards the fact that his muscles are twitching uncontrollably. Tom puts a finger to his ear. “He’s ready.”

“Ready for what?” Harry wheezes.

Tom hits another button below the table that evens it into a sitting position, sending blood rushing from Harry’s head through his torso, and then through his legs, which throb. In this position, he can clearly see the wall across from him is a shiny mirror. He stares at himself. His eyes, bloodshot. His hair, wild and curly. His wounds, filthy and uncared for. He looks like the same person who showed up at the Rebellion so long ago, except his hair’s shorter and somehow his eyes look fuller.

 _Can you tell if someone’s in love,_ Harry thinks, _just by looking at their eyes?_

Tom checks the straps are tight enough, one last time for good measure. “Are you set?” Tom says aloud into his earpiece, and listens to whatever reply. Harry fervently gives the straps another weak tug and drops his head back against the table in hopeless frustration.

He hears another click; Tom flips a switch by the mirror, and Harry opens his eyes to the panel sliding upwards to reveal...a clear window of glass.

There’s a man sitting in a swivel chair with his back facing them. The room is white, plain and empty. When the mirror rises, he turns.

Harry freezes.

 


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cardiff pt 2.

“Thanks for doing that, Tom,” Ben says.

Harry’s heart pounds so hard he can feel it in his throat, behind his eyes, and in his fingertips.

“I know, I know,” Ben addresses Harry’s shock matter-of-factly, and almost amused. “It must be quite a surprise to see me, especially after all this time.” His voice is crackly through whatever vessel he’s speaking into.

Harry stares at him. He looks completely unharmed. He looks _better_ than he did at the Rebellion.

“How…”

“We’ve got a lot to get through, so I think you’d find it in your favor to save your questions until the end,” Ben tells him. “Tom, bring him a bit closer. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

Tom doesn’t say anything, just walks over to the table and pushes it closer to the window, and then leaves the room. Harry feels terribly exposed, but he can see Ben more clearly now. The lines of his face, his clean hair, his fresh clothes.

“Friends,” Harry says, mostly to himself, and looks over at Louis.

“Harry, can you nod if you understand what I’m saying?”

Harry nods slowly.

“Good.” Ben sits back in his chair, folding his hands and smiling. “I bet you’re wondering where you are, and why you’re here. It hasn’t been easy. You’ve been put through a lot of pain. I’m sorry for that. I never would have wanted this for you, or Louis, or anyone.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry asks numbly.

“How about I start from the beginning,” Ben replies. “With your arrival at camp.” Harry swallows. “It’s a hard memory, I know. You came in a scrawny young teenager. Didn’t know anything about anything; never held a gun in your life. Then you got the serum. Everything changed, didn’t it? You changed after that. I’m sure you felt it.”

He remembers the worst kind of agony he’s ever felt in his whole life. His very own blood burning under his skin. He remembers Jack telling him and Niall neither of them could feel pain _normally,_  that they'd never be properly human.

“I don’t mean how it felt going in,” Ben says, like he’s reading Harry’s mind. “I imagine it must’ve been awful. No, I’m talking about afterwards. You suffered many, many injuries in your camp. Most of which would normally have been fatal. You know that, right?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Well, I will say that nobody reacted to the serum quite as well as you did. Not even Niall, though I did expect him to be an excellent candidate. Of course, then he had his injury.”

“You’re not with the Rebellion, are you.” It’s not a question. Ben cracks a smile.

“Not in the way you thought,” Ben replies. “Anyways. You really have proven yourself. Every test, you passed with ease. We were all quite impressed. The serum did wonders, as well. You were so passionate about everything; never wanting to let your squad down. Remarkable. Even after the assaults and the beatings, you kept going. That’s what we were looking for.”

“We?” Harry feels like throwing up.

Ben sighs. “Yes, Harry. We. The government. You’re in Cardiff.”

“You…” Harry shakes his head. “No. You’re with the government?”

“I _am_ the government,” Ben says. “The government belongs to _me._ The leadership change everyone in Cambridge was talking about? It’s _me._ ”

That’s impossible. Harry still gets a chill up his spine. Everything he revealed to Ben, everything Ben asked of him...that was all the government? Is the Rebellion even real?

Then he remembers; this must be why the guards at the Cambridge camp were all British. Because the _leadership_ is British.

A more dangerous thought hits him. Is Louis even a Rebel? Is this why he suggested going into Cardiff all along?

“Don’t worry,” Ben says grimly. “Your friends haven’t betrayed you. Not like your little friend Zayn did, all those years ago.”

Harry shudders and clenches his jaw. “You shouldn’t know that name.”

“Oh, but I do.” Ben’s tone makes his hands tremble. He thought he’d moved on. That he wouldn’t have to think of _him_ anymore, not with Louis by his side, but how is he supposed to believe anything Louis’ said to him? If Ben’s been lying this whole time, what’s to say Louis hasn’t been? “I know _everything_ , Harry.”

Harry’s hands clench into fists. “He asked you to help him with a Rebel scheme,” Ben says. “And you, being in love, went right along with it.” At the look on Harry’s face, he laughs. “Don’t look so appalled. I’ve known about you this whole time.” Louis. Louis said Ben didn’t know. He’s sweating and his breathing is uneven and his skin is burnt, but all he can think is that _Louis lied to him._

“Zayn--you called him Z, just as he called you H--told you he had inside contact with a Rebel organization. Said that you were the only one who could help him. You believed him. And so what did you do, Harry? Do you remember?”

“Go to hell,” Harry spits.

Ben laughs again, a gross sound that twists and contorts his face. “You lit fire to your tent. Right?”

Harry pulls at the restraints. “You don’t know _anything._ ”

“You lit fire to your tent, and you ran to the place where Zayn had said to meet, and he was gone, wasn’t he? And you spent so long looking you damaged your lungs from inhaling the smoke. You watched your friends die. Your squad. You killed them, didn’t you? Tell me, Harry. Tell me this isn’t true.”

“You don’t know _anything_ ,” Harry yells.

“Zayn never showed up. He escaped without you. He _betrayed_ you. It was the biggest loss you’d ever felt. But Harry, what you didn’t know was that you’d passed our test. You did everything right! Even though you didn’t prove your loyalty to the government, you proved it to your best friend. Your lover. And that’s what matters most. Especially after you proved your loyalty to me and aided us in taking down the camps. Even though it nearly killed you. But we got another dose of the serum into you as well, so it was quite productive in the scheme of things.

“Of course, you weren’t perfect. Your sexuality was...an unfortunate factor in what we wanted to create. We didn’t anticipate you and Louis beginning an affair, either. Of course, now we know you never actually confessed your love for him, which is further proof of your resistance.” Harry’s blood boils. “Your skills, your abilities...you’re incredible, Harry. You’re exactly what we need to win this revolution. We’ve spent a very long time studying you.”

“Why?” Harry snaps. “Why did you spend so long studying me?”

“Because you’re the perfect soldier,” Ben tells him. “The serum worked, the testing worked. If we can replicate this in our _own_ soldiers, imagine how successful we’ll be? We’ll be _unstoppable._ What’s left of the Rebellion...Glasgow, Dublin. The remaining Rebels of London. They’ll have no chance. We just need your help. We know your strengths mentally, but we need to study you physically. Your muscles, your blood. Your brain. Then we can replicate it.”

Harry feels like all the breath has been punched from his body.

“Why should I agree to help you?” Harry bursts out angrily. “You took my sister. My cousin. My family. They’re dead because of you.”

“Because.” Ben leans forward on his elbows. “I will tell you exactly where your sister and cousin are.”

Harry scoffs as a way to distract from his inner turmoil. “Like I’m going to believe you.”

“I’m not going to make you believe me,” Ben says. “I wouldn’t expect any less. No, I have someone else to help persuade you.”

A door behind him opens. Harry’s breathing picks up. His palms sweat. _No._

God. Harry thinks it would feel better to be shot in the chest a million more times.

It’s not that he’s surprised, really. He’s taken so much shock in these past few hours he doesn’t think _anything_ could surprise him. But it’s so much he feels like his head’s going to explode. Because there was always that space in the back of his mind that told him Z was still alive. He never saw him die. How was he supposed to erase every memory of him?

Harry couldn’t. Now, he kind of wishes he had. It’d make this less painful.

He looks different. A bit of facial hair. Thin framed, round glasses. Thick black hair.

Harry used to kiss that mouth.

“Hi, H,” Z says. Something tears through Harry’s whole body; a sob, maybe. An anguished cry.

“Ben. Could you...not have his arms restrained? Please?”

Ben glances at Z and sighs, before gesturing for Tom to untie him. Tom loosens the straps slowly, but Harry doesn’t move his wrists out until he’s backed away completely. He pulls his hands close to his chest and rubs at the shiny burns there. His ankles are still bound, but he can hug his arms over his stomach so he doesn’t feel quite so exposed.

“Don’t freak out,” Z tells Harry as he cradles his own hands close to his body. “H. Look at me. Please.”

Harry releases a quavering breath, and shakes his head.

“Alright. That’s...okay. It’s okay.” Harry doesn’t want to see the look on his face. He hates himself because he should hate Z, after what he did, but can’t.

“Listen, H, I’m. I just want you to know I’m sorry.”

Harry hears Ben clear his throat loudly.

“I’m sure you hate me. But...I swear, I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“You’ve done it before,” Harry says quietly, low enough he doesn’t even think Z will hear him.

“That…that was different. I had to. H, you don’t understand--I did it for you. For _us._ Because I knew we would see each other again. It was the only way. You never would’ve believed me otherwise. But please, you need to know that I never wanted to hurt you. You were…you _are_ the most important thing to me, to this project.”

“My sister’s not here,” Harry mumbles, tracing his fingertips around the blisters on his wrists.

“She _is_ ,” Z says firmly. His voice isn’t the same, either. Maybe that’s just the crackle of the microphone. “I swear to you. I’ve met her, H. She’s so lovely. She misses you so much. And your cousin. H, your cousin is--”

“Don’t,” Harry cuts him off, and looks up to meet Z’s eyes for the first time. They’re hazel and gold behind the glasses. Harry has to hold in another sob. “What about the others?”

“What others?” Z asks.

“Your friends aren’t part of the project,” Ben interrupts. “Niall will be brought here soon enough, and the Rebellion will be taken down. They don’t have a leader, anyway.”

“ _Louis_ is their leader,” Harry fumes. “He’s lying across the fucking hall unconscious because of you.”

“But H,” Z says, “If you had to choose...would you pick your sister? Or someone you only just met a few months ago?”

Harry’s chest tightens and goosebumps spring up on his arms. He can’t breathe.

“I…”

“Do you realize how important this project is?” Z continues. “H, we’re creating superhumans. I was only a helper in all this. You’re _the one._ You’re like, the secret to everything. You withstood every fatal disease. Wounds, injuries. The epidemic? You _survived._ Nobody survives.”

“You did,” Harry says coldly.

“Because I was given a vaccine. Early on, before camp. To prepare me.”

“Well if you already have a vaccine then why do you need me?”

“Because we can’t just vaccinate all of what's left of our crumbled Europe!” Z bursts out incredulously. “We find what’s in your blood, we replicate it, we put whatever chemicals make you able to survive in the water supply, we give it to infants, we hereditize it. You’re _it_. We can cure anything with you. We don’t even know your lifespan yet. You could live to be a hundred and fifty. Do you understand, H?”

“I don’t want it,” Harry growls. “I don’t want this. I just wanted to protect my sister.”

“She’s fine,” Z tells him, closing his eyes like he’s struggling to control himself. “And if you agree to help us, your life will be wonderful. You’ll live in luxury. Niall will come too.”

“Luxury? You want to cut us open and call it luxury?”

“We’re not--”

“And what about Louis? What about Liam, and Jack? Why can’t the Rebels live here? Why can’t we be together?”

Ben holds up a hand. “That’s enough, Zayn. Let me speak to him.

“Harry, Louis is against the government. He’s against what we’re doing; he doesn’t think it’s right. Says that we’re not letting people have free will. That’s what the Rebellion stands for. You belong to us. You belong to the government; we’re in your blood. You really think Louis could fall in love with someone like you? People like Louis must be _exterminated._ Do you understand?”

“Is that why you were so committed to killing off all those survivors?” Harry asks.

“That’s exactly why,” Ben says. “Because those who can’t be controlled are dangerous. You know this, don’t you?”

Harry refuses. He can’t do this. Sister, or Rebellion. Z, or Louis. A year ago, the choice wouldn’t have seemed so impossible but now his own humanity is being torn apart.

“We’re so close,” Ben says. “Harry, if you agree to this, your parents deaths won’t have to be in vain. You help us, and nothing goes to waste. Scientists have been working for centuries to create something like you, and you’re right here. We’ve _done_ it. You can live here with your sister, your cousin, with _Zayn._ Don’t you want that?”

_I’m in love with you. Harry._

_I don’t expect you to say it back._

_I needed you to know._

_Just in case._

_I’m in love with you._

_Harry._

_I’m in love._

Harry buries his face in his hands.

“H,” Z begins.

“Shut up,” Harry gets out in distress. “Let me think.”

_You’re beautiful. Please._

_You deserve so much._

_You’re beautiful._

“If you say no, there may be terrible consequences,” Ben warns.

_I’m like you._

Louis can’t die. What is he thinking?

“No,” Harry says. There’s complete silence. “I won’t do it. If you kill me, you lose me. But I won’t let you kill Louis.”

Ben watches him closely for a long moment. “Are you sure, Harry?”

Harry refuses to meet Z’s stare. “Yes,” he replies firmly.

There’s another minute of silence where three pairs of eyes bore into him deeply, waiting for him to change his mind. They won’t kill him. He’s too important. But he vowed to protect Louis, to protect Liam and Jack and he’ll be damned if he’s letting them hurt Niall.

“Well,” Ben says, brows pulled together. “I suppose you’ll have to watch us kill your sister after all.”

Harry’s mind goes blank, just as Z’s hand shoots out and slams Ben’s face into the window, smearing dark red blood against the glass.

Ben’s body tips off his chair, out cold. Harry can’t breathe.

Tom rushes forward and immediately loosens Harry’s ankle cuffs. He almost goes sliding off the table, but he’s caught by Tom bracing an arm around his shoulders.

“What the fuck,” Harry says.

“Stay quiet,” Tom snaps at him. When Harry looks up, Z isn’t in the room through the glass anymore.

“Where did he go?” Harry wonders dumbly.

“Can you walk?” Tom asks instead of answering. Why is he helping? Wasn’t he just literally torturing Harry?

“I...don’t know.” He experiments by pushing up from the table and feels his feet touch the cold floor. Tom grabs his forearms and Harry isn’t sure whether to shove him away or not.

Tom hands him a shirt that’s materialized out of nowhere and guides it over his head. Harry’s legs are numb but he pushes towards the glass and leans against it for support.

“Louis,” Harry breathes out, exerted even from this, “Help me get to him. Please.” Tom swears under his breath and pulls Harry’s arm around his shoulders, pressing his palm to a plastic panel on the glass door so it slides open. Harry takes in a big breath of air and pulls ahead to Louis’ cell, losing his balance and teetering to the side. Tom catches him.

“Easy,” Tom says. “He’s fine.” He opens the door anyway, letting Harry stumble over to Louis’ body.

Harry clutches up Louis’ icy hands and sinks to his knees. His hair is matted and dirty, bare skin bruised. His tattoos are the same; faded ink, script Harry still doesn’t know the meaning of.

“Louis,” Harry says, louder. “Wake up.”

The only sign of life is that Louis’ eyelid twitches. Harry squeezes his hands harder, like that’ll pull him into consciousness.

“Louis. Please. It’s me.”

“Styles,” Tom says from behind him. “We have to go. If you want to save him, get him up now.”

“ _Louis._ ”

Footsteps thunder through the glass, and when Harry turns, Z’s standing in the open doorway, breathless and panting. Up close, it’s hits him that this is _real._ The person in front of him isn’t a mirage. It’s Z, it’s the face Harry used to hold in his hands and pepper kisses over until they were giggling, it’s the body that stood alongside him at all times, the hands that tended to his wounds and the leg that was shot on that mission.

“H,” Z says.

Harry stands up and takes a step back. He doesn’t know where this defensive part of him has come from, but it's automatic, and he's helpless to stop it. He spent three years of his life living with Z, and now he’s scared to go near him.

Z’s expression softens. “It’s me. H, please. I’m the same person.” When Harry doesn’t say anything, he takes a step closer. “I’m sorry I scared you like that. Shit. I didn’t mean it.”

“You...you left me,” Harry chokes. “You _lied_ to me.”

“Ben was going to kill my family,” Z replies. “I didn’t have a choice.” He steps closer again and holds out his hand. “Hurting you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I’ve waited so long to see you again, and...fuck. Please, H. It’s just me.”

Harry stares at the smooth lines of Z’s palm. It has every characteristic of wealth written into it; neat, trimmed nails, clear skin. Harry looks up to meet Z’s eyes through his glasses. Hazel, brown, gold. Every time he so much as shifts his head the color changes.

He puts his hand out tentatively and takes Z’s fingers. They’re soft. Z smiles; it’s barely a smile, because smiling isn’t really his thing, but he looks pleased.

“You need to explain everything,” Harry tells him weakly, and Z laughs tearfully, before grabbing Harry's face in both of his hands and kissing him square on the mouth.

Harry freezes.

His mouth, unmoving against Z’s, feels numb and clumsy and Z’s lips don’t feel familiar. Not like they used to. Z pulls away after a moment of realizing Harry isn’t kissing back, just as they hear a small cough from beneath them.

Harry thinks he gets whiplash from how fast he turns his head to look at Louis, who’s pushing himself into a hunched sitting position and staring at them, eyes narrowed.

Gently, Harry removes himself from Z’s grip. “Louis.”

Louis blinks at the two slowly. His eyes are unfocused but sure and certain just as he always is, and he rakes his eyes over Z’s body warily.

“Who’s this?” His voice is low and raspy and thick from lack of use.

“We’ve got to go,” Tom pipes up nervously.

Louis furrows his brows at Tom. “The fuck is he doing here?”

“I’m saving your asses,” Tom snaps.

“I’m Zayn,” Z says unhelpfully.

“You’re…” Louis shakes his head in confusion, and Harry gets a pang of pity. He got a _concussion._ God knows what other injuries he has but doesn’t know about.

“Jesus,” Tom says, louder this time. “Do you want to get caught? Get Louis up, we’re leaving. Now.”

“Where are we going?” Louis asks as Harry helps undo his cuffs and pull him up off the table. Louis shoves Z away when he tries to help, glaring angrily. He saw the two of them kiss. Harry wants to explain everything to him, but there seem to be other things to worry about. He still doesn’t know what’s going on; Tom saving them? Z alive? Ben unconscious? The Rebellion, the government?

“Am I dreaming?” Louis speculates.

“I feel the same way,” Harry murmurs into his ear, and kisses his temple lightly before slinging an arm over his shoulder to support him, even though his legs feel like jelly themselves. Tom scoffs at them and reaches for Louis’ other arm to help, but Harry feels like hissing him away.

“Alright,” Z says. “We need to get to the doors, get them to safety. I’ll come back for Ben.”

“Ben?” Louis says, to nobody’s reply.

“What about my sister?” Harry retorts. “She’s supposed to be here.”

“Are we in Cardiff?” Louis blurts out, but it sounds directed more at himself than anyone else.

“I know,” Z barks. “We’re gonna get to her. Fuck. I’m just waiting for the signal.”

“What signal?” Harry exclaims. He thinks of Ben’s body; what’ll happen if Ben wakes, and finds they’re gone. What Ben will do to him, to Louis, to Niall. To…

“Liam. Jack.” Harry shakes his head, overwhelmed. “We need to get to them. Z. What do we do?”

Tom looks down at his watch, and back at Z, raising his eyebrows. “It’s your call,” he says.

“Two minutes!” Z orders. “Tom, two fucking minutes. Just hang on.”

Louis becomes dead weight in Harry’s arms as his legs give out from under him, and Harry’s knees buckle, which almost sends the two of them to the floor, but Z reaches out and catches him just in time. Harry can’t stop staring. His beard, his hair. He’s a man now. Not the skinny boy Harry met at camp.

Everything they went through...was it real? Did Z really break his leg? Was Z really in love with Harry? The kisses they shared; were they genuine? Harry doesn’t know. It’s a terrible feeling.

“Hang on,” Tom says, pressing a finger to his earpiece. “Okay. They’re tapped in. Give it a couple seconds…”

Harry waits. And waits longer. And Louis’ eyes are fluttering and Harry’s vision is crowding and he’s starting to think he’s waiting for nothing when an explosion sounds from somewhere close by; minimal, but it shakes the floor and suddenly Harry’s wide awake.

“ _This is the Rebellion!_ ” shouts a woman’s voice. _Leigh._ “ _Put your hands in the air!_ ”

They’re saved.

  



	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> z and gemma.

It’s a flurry of movement and commotion, and it happens all at once.

It’s gunshots and smoke grenades and shouting. It’s the smell of chemicals and cleaning supplies spilling into the sterile air. It’s Harry grappling for Louis’ hands and trying to shove him back out of the range of a potential ricocheted bullet. It’s Z reaching out to grab Harry’s shirt but his fingers slipping through the fabric.

“H,” Z says, and his eyes look sad. “You’re safe. They’re here.”

Harry turns his head and looks at Louis’ shaken figure, pale face and hollow cheekbones and hazy eyes.

_It’s never safe._

“We need to get to the entrance,” Tom instructs. “Styles, you’re fine, the Rebellion’s here. They’re getting you to safety.”

“My sister?” Harry says. Louis’ warm fingers squeeze the back of his neck, a vague sign he’s still conscious. Harry’s head throbs, and Z’s brows come together reluctantly.

“Okay,” Z says finally. “We’ll get you and Louis to safety, and I’ll fetch your sister.”  
  
“No,” Harry replies immediately. “I’m coming with you.”

Z puts his face in his hands and shakes his head. When he looks back at Harry, there are pink imprints on his forehead from his fingertips. Harry can’t decide if he wants to touch the side of his face or not.

“H. She’s on the other side of the base. You’re injured.” He gestures down to Harry’s side; even through the white shirt they can still see the slashes from the debris of the crash. “I’ll go get Gemma, and I’ll bring her back, and we’ll go back to London. Together, yeah?”

_“You come find me after you’ve set the fire, and we’ll leave this place. Together, yeah?”_

He knows neither of them are the same teenagers they once were, but Harry thinks Z has changed completely. Three years. He’s been here for three years. While he was living under the watchful eye of the government, Harry was on his own, trying to recover from his life being wrecked _again_. In all those three years, Harry never even let himself hold a grudge. Now, he feels the first sting of spite against what Z did to him.

“I’m going,” Harry says firmly. His tone must mean a lot, because Z watches him for a moment and then nods.

“Harry,” Louis gets out hoarsely, right against his shoulder. “I can’t stand for much longer.” To punctuate his words, he sinks a little towards the floor, legs buckling.

There’s an explosion that comes from not far away. Harry and Louis flinch away reactively, but Z’s and Tom’s heads shoot up, Tom abandoning Louis’ side recklessly to stick his head out the door of the cell, which means Louis’ legs actually do collapse and he falls. Harry’s too weak to catch him.

“We need to get to Liam...and Jack…” Louis slurs drowsily, eyes fluttering closed as Harry tries not to cry and pulls him up weakly and uselessly. He glances back at Z, who’s standing there, shaking his head repeatedly and clutching his head in his hands.

“Z,” Harry says loudly. “We need to find the others. Now.”

Tom sticks his head back in. “They’re here. Up you get.” He reaches for Harry’s arm, which Harry refuses, scooting back so he can help Louis first. He’s so pale. This feels like Harry’s fault for a reason he can’t place.

Someone comes in sight through the glass. A head of curly hair, a rifle. Leigh. She raises her gun the moment she lays eyes on Tom and Z.

“It’s okay,” Harry tells her tiredly. “They’re with us.”

“The fuck is this?” she asks, jerking her head at Z.

“Z,” Harry replies, and that seems to be all the answer she needs because she steps into the cell and puts a hand on Louis’ face.

“Is he hurt?”

“Concussion.” Harry’s throat aches, like he might cry again. His wrists are still burning.

When Tom rushes forward to help lift Louis’ now unconscious form, Leigh shoves him away. Harry likes that.

They get him hoisted up. Leigh takes a second to examine Harry’s burns, but gunshots sound from somewhere nearby and she takes the firm lead, supporting Louis on her own and beckoning for them to follow.

The hallway is long in both directions, but it’s filled with smoke to his left. Leigh apparently knows exactly where to go; Harry has no idea how, but she walks right into the smoke and keeps going, which means it must be safe enough. He doesn’t wait for Z to step into pace beside him. He thinks he feels a little piece of his heart splinter off when Z doesn’t try again.

“When you lot didn’t contact us,” Leigh calls over her shoulder as the smoke hazes their visions, “We figured something was wrong. Then Tom calls us over radio, tells us he’s on our side. No idea how he managed to tap in, but. Whatever.” Harry looks into each cell to check for Jack or Liam. “We heard your helicopter crashed?”

A stitch forms in Harry’s side. He can’t double over in pain; not yet. “Yeah. We all got hurt. Nick…”

“Don’t,” Leigh interrupts, so Harry doesn’t.

“We’re gonna get you guys into a van and on your way back to London,” she adds. “Matty’s gonna make sure you’re okay; I’ll come back with Tom for Liam and Jack.”

“What about my sister?”

Leigh spares a confused glance over her shoulder. Louis limps along, half conscious, half un. “Is she here?”

“H and I are going to fetch her,” Z pipes up. The smoke burns Harry’s eyes, and he coughs, which makes his injured side throb, which makes his right leg buckle. He leans against a wall of glass and tries to catch his breath.

“Take a right!” Tom calls. Leigh audibly scoffs, and takes a left turn.

Z halts in front of where Harry’s clutching his stomach. “Fuck, are you okay?”

“Fine,” Harry says, just as a pain shoots through his head.

“Come on.” Harry doesn’t have much energy to resist as Z pulls his arm around his shoulders. They fall into step easily, coughing through the smoke, and finally Leigh pushes through a door and they’re in a clear lobby.

“We disabled the locks,” she explains quickly at the aghast look on Tom’s face.

The lobby is empty except for the man Harry recognizes as Matty, their second medic. There are double doors with small windows in them, clear enough for Harry to see the forestry in the distance. Harry glances over to an empty desk. There’s a motionless body beside it. Harry feels sick.

“Everyone else is off fighting,” Leigh says breathlessly, passing Louis over to Matty. The man’s eyes fall on Tom, and then Z.

“We part here,” Z announces. “Harry, you should really go with them.”

“No,” Harry says firmly, but not as firmly as he means to because there’s smoke in his head and he literally can’t breathe. “I’m going with you.”

“I know my way around this base a hell of a lot better than you do,” Z warns. “We have to be fast.”

Harry looks over at Louis. His eyes are open now, blue as ever, and they meet Harry’s slowly but surely.

“Go,” Louis tells him faintly. “I’ll be fine. I’m in good hands. Go get your sister.”

_I love you._

Harry nods once, gives him one last wistful look, and then Z is guiding him out of the lobby and into a different hallway.

 

*

 

The lights are flickering.

Harry can’t tell if it’s his own faulty vision or if somebody’s shot up a generator or something. Either way, it’s hard to concentrate on his own walking when he can’t see the floor below him.

He’s going to see his sister.

He’s going to see his cousin.

The nerves are really sinking in.

“Does…does she talk about me?” Harry asks painfully. Z is walking too fast for him to keep up with, so his feet drag on the tiles.

“All the time. She’s been waiting for you for so long.”

A sob tries to fight his way up his throat. He swallows it down. “What does she do?”

“She’s a computer programmer.”

Fuck. His heart hurts.

“Did they know I was gonna be brought here?”

“Gemma did. Ben told her.”

“She never wanted to leave?”

Z laughs humorlessly. “You’ll be seeing her in a moment, babe. Don’t worry.”

 _Babe._ It used to be sweet, endearing, but something’s wrong now.

 _Is it possible to fall out of love with someone?_ Harry thinks. Maybe he never actually fell out of love with Z. Just started loving someone else. It feels wrong, in some sick way, to be in love with Z. After everything Louis has told him? Everything Louis has done for him?

“You really like that Louis bloke, don’t you,” Z says bitterly. It’s not a question.

“He’s...the best thing that’s happened to me. In a long time.” There’s the unspoken truth: _you were the best thing, and then you abandoned me, and for three years there wasn’t a single good thing, and now Louis is here, and he's everything._

“Hm,” Zayn says. The lights flicker off again, for longer this time. “We’re close. Are you ready? To see her?”

A pulse of anxiety washes over him. A tiny piece of him has never been _more_ ready but most of him could never be more terrified.

“I...don’t know.”

The lights flick off, and a split second later, come back fluorescent red, and for a moment he thinks he’s been transported back to the Rebellion and there’s a bullet about to be put in his shoulder. Harry looks behind them. The halls are empty. His throat tightens with panic.

“It means the generator’s down,” Z says quickly at the look on Harry’s face. “The red light saves power. Don’t worry.”

By the time they get to the end of the hallway, Harry is so out of breath his lungs are burning and his muscles are spasming and he thinks the scabs on his side have split and the cuts are bleeding. He still hasn’t forgotten about the pieces of metal sticking out of his skin, but there’s nothing he can do about it right now, so he tries not to think about it.

Z fishes a card out of his pocket and presses it to a pad of plastic on the wall; it shines green, beeps, and the door slides open.

“Thank god they haven’t disabled it yet,” Z mutters, seemingly to himself. “These guards are good for nothing.”

“Where are all the guards?” Harry asks, but it comes out as more of a faint gasp.

“Off fighting,” Z replies. “Not sure where. It’s fine, as long as they stay away from us.”

The room they enter is round, with four thick metal doors at each side. The lights are normal in the room, and clash with the red. Distantly, Harry hears children’s voices. With a new wave of nausea, he realizes his terrible headache, and when he blinks hard to refocus his vision, he feels dried blood crackle on his skin.

“Gemma!” Z calls out to nowhere. “It’s me!”

All that registers is the pounding in Harry’s chest. His shaking hands. His wavering muscles as they struggle to support his weight.

Nothing happens.

“Gemma! I’ve got Harry!”

There’s silence, and then somewhere behind the door directly in front of them, a chair scrapes against the floor.

Harry looks down at his chest. He can see it pulsing, and wonders if the heartbeat in his ears is loud enough for Z to hear too.

It’s an odd thing. Knowing his sister who he hasn’t seen in six years is behind one of these doors, and she’s alive.. Knowing his sister has been waiting for him in all this time. Knowing his sister doesn’t hate him. Knowing she talks about him.

And his baby cousin. His baby cousin, who isn’t really his cousin but feels like it, and who isn’t really a baby anymore.

“They’re both…” Harry doesn’t quite know how to finish the sentence, but Z nods anyway.

There’s a beep from behind the same door, and slowly, with a sucking sound like an airlock, the metal slides open slowly. Harry’s breath hitches.

The woman standing behind the door isn’t his sister.

She’s got brown hair cut to just below her shoulders. There are freckles on her cheeks and nose. Red lipstick. Smooth, ironed clothes.

Harry stares into green eyes flecked with grey.

The woman’s face crumples and suddenly she’s bounding towards him, arms wide open, and he’s forgetting his weakness and all his pain and surging forward and they’re wrapped in each other’s arms in the tightest and most relieving embrace he’s ever felt.

She’s real. She’s here.

“Hazza,” Gemma cries into his ear. They’re both crying. Harry’s only now just realized there are tears on his face, and his shoulder is wet from her tears. He hasn’t heard her voice in so long.

His shoulders shake with his sobs, but they don’t feel as anguished this time. He releases the breath he’s been holding since that day at sixteen, and breathes in the smell of her hair, and he’s probably smeared blood on her nice blazer but he doesn’t care in the slightest.

“I love you,” he manages to weep. “I love you. I love you.”

“I love you,” she chants back. “I love you I love you I love you.”

“I missed you.” It comes out like an afterthought.

“Fuck,” Gemma sobs. “I missed you so much. Hazza. I waited so long for you.”

He curls his fingers into her hair. He’s safe. He’s okay. He doesn’t have to be afraid anymore.

“I thought you were…” He can’t get the last word out.

“I’m here,” she says, and that’s all that matters. “I’m here.”

She pulls back and clutches his face in her hands. Her eyes, identical to his own, are shiny and sparkling with unfallen tears.

“You’ve grown so tall,” she says in a wet laugh, and he’s laughing and crying and putting his hands over hers and she kisses his cheek and Harry feels the stamp of her lipstick and he doesn’t feel any pain and all he can think is _finally._

She takes a step back and scans his body, and her brows furrow. “You’re hurt.” He remembers her so well. Everything comes rushing back, like he’s been holding on to her by a thin thread and the thread, upon seeing her, has returned to rope.

“I’m okay,” he tells her.

“No.” She looks over his shoulder at where Z is standing. “You haven’t gotten him medical help?”

“He insisted on coming here to see you,” Z says, and then his gaze flickers down to Gemma’s legs, and Harry looks down too, only to see a small hand wrapped around her thigh. He feels a pang in his chest and tilts his head so he can see the child.

Gemma gets a smile on her face despite the tears still running down her cheeks. Harry’s missed her so much.

“Haz,” she begins, guiding the little hand off her leg, “This is Olivia.”

 _I know_ , Harry thinks.

He gets down onto his knees and the little girl peers out from behind Gemma nervously. Her eyes, dark blue. Thick brown hair almost to her waist. She’s wearing blue jeans and a yellow sweater and Harry sees her glittery gold shoes when she takes a single, tiny step closer to him.

“Olivia, sweetheart, this is your…this is our Harry.”

He’s still crying as he tentatively holds out his hand for the small girl to shake. This is the infant that had been shoved into Gemma’s arms. This is the baby he’d held in his arms as Gemma cracked open cans of soup. This is the baby whose cries he listened to as the truck drove him away at sixteen and left his sister in the dust.

Thinking hard, he realizes she’s seven now. She must be. Maybe a little younger. He’s missed so much of her life.

Shyly, she takes another step closer and takes his hand gently, shaking it. He gets another horrible pang of sadness. She doesn’t remember anything about him.

Of course, it catches him by surprise when she flings herself at him and hugs his neck so tightly he can’t breathe for a moment.

“You’re Harry,” she says.

“You’re Olivia,” he agrees, and carefully wraps his arms around her.

“We’ve got to go,” Z says from behind them, pulling Harry out of the dreamscape he feels like he’s been floating through. “We’re running out of time.” Z takes a deep breath as if to control himself. “We need to get everyone to London.”

“All the way to London?”

Olivia still hasn’t moved. She seems content with hugging for the rest time.

“We’ve got no other facility available,” Z says. “London is closest, anyways. So we need to get out. Now. The Rebels are taking care of the guards. There’s a helicopter on its way, and you, H, and Olivia better be on it.”

“What about Louis?” Harry asks, voice slightly muffled by Olivia’s hair.

“Who’s Louis?” Gemma says, right as Z says, “He’ll be fine.”

“Z,” Harry says seriously, gently removing the child from his arms. “If Louis isn’t in that helicopter with us then I’m not going either.”

“Haz, what the fuck are you talking about?” his sister asks incredulously.

“He will be,” Z answers firmly.

“What about Liam and Jack?”

“Tom will take care of them.”

“I don’t trust Tom,” Harry tells him honestly.

“This isn’t about trust,” Z yells. Olivia takes a step back, and Z takes another breath in through his nose. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “This is about getting you out of here alive. So you’re gonna do what I say, so help me god, and we’ll get you back to London and sort things out there.”

Harry doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what to do, but right now he just tries to push himself to his feet. Z rushes forward to help him up.

“Jesus,” Gemma says breathlessly when she must catch sight of the debris in his skin. “Olivia, don’t let go of my hand, alright?” The girl nods earnestly, and Z pulls Harry’s arm back around his shoulders to help him walk, and with this, they begin back down the hallway.

Olivia whimpers when she sees the walls and floor basked in red light. Gemma consoles her quickly. Harry can’t even feel the pain in his head or side at this point, as if the adrenaline is forcing it out.

 _Or maybe it’s the serum_ , he thinks grimly.

He’ll worry about that later. With Gemma here, his chest feels considerably lighter, like he somehow knows she’ll know exactly what to do, and exactly how to protect him. Just like they always were. Because they can’t be that different from when they were teenagers, can they? Not with each other.

He’s so relieved. He’s so, so relieved.

He wonders what her life has been like. Harry only really saw Gemma’s true self after the coup, when it was just the two of them; before that, she stayed in her bedroom often, in typical teenage behavior. Harry knows who she really is, though. Knows how she thinks, and how she likes her tea, and her biggest pet peeves. He glances behind him, just to make sure she and Olivia are still there. They are.

Harry tries to sort through his mind. He needs to make sure Louis’ alright. He needs to find Jack and Liam. He needs to make sure Z, and Gemma, and Olivia all get out of here alive. He’ll think about his own wounds later.

When they reach the end of the hallway, the first gleam of daylight appearing, Z halts. Gemma bumps into Harry, like she wasn’t expecting them to stop.

“You three get to the helicopter. There’s something I have to do.”

Harry’s blood runs cold. Not now. Not when they’re so close.

“What?” Gemma says. “What could possibly be more important than getting out of here now?”

“Just trust me, alright?” Z tells her hurriedly. “Get outside. Gem, the chopper is in the south lot. Louis will be there. So will Matty. Go.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Harry says, without thinking. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Harry--”

“I just got you back.” Harry tries to say everything his mouth can’t with his eyes, pleading silently. “I can’t lose you. Not again.”

A door slams open to their left, kicked down by a great and loud force.

Gemma gasps and shoves Olivia behind her, and Harry turns his head just in time to see Ben walking towards them, pistol raised in an unwavering hand, nose bleeding and big purple bruise on his head. Z takes a step back and Harry stumbles.

Slowly, Z puts his hand that isn’t supporting Harry in the air. Harry can feel Gemma’s presence behind him.

“Ben,” Z begins carefully, “Lower the gun.”

Ben barks out a manic laugh. It chills Harry to his core.

“You expect me to let you all go?” Ben spits. “After you’ve destroyed everything? The one hope we had at restoring the world to what it was? This is how you repay me? Repay _us_? Zayn, you swore an oath.”

Z doesn’t say anything, so Ben keeps talking.

“Harry, you realize what you’re throwing away, right? We’re going to lose! The Rebellion won’t matter anymore when we’re all dead, will it? So fine! Go and throw it all away. You’ve always been selfish. From the very beginning, you’ve been selfish.” Harry’s skin stings with anger, but Z tightens his grip on Harry’s shoulders which he takes as a sign to keep his mouth shut.

“You’re killing us all!” Ben cries wildly. “You? Your sister? You’re as good as dead! And your lover? Louis? He’s worse than dead!”

“What are you talking about?” Harry asks, voice trembling. Ben’s finger moves closer to the trigger, and Harry realizes what Z’s doing; with every sentence, he creeps a centimeter closer to Ben. He’s going to disarm him. He’s always been the smart one.   
  
“Ha. Of course he never told you.” Blood lines Ben’s gums when his lips pull back in a horrifying smile. “He never told you about his family. Typical.” Harry doesn’t know what this means.

“His father led the fucking coup.”

No.

“Why do you think he was second in command to me? When I became leader, before his father’s death, he instructed me to use Louis as my way to get to you. Not only does he have far too much compassion, but he’s also a blatant homosexual! And he thought he hid it so well. He thought he’d escaped the regime when he found the Rebellion all those years ago. Really, his brilliant father had planned the whole thing. Louis is supposed to take over when I’m dead, but...well. That was the one command I disobeyed.”

Not Louis. Harry’s frozen to the spot; his heart frozen in his chest, his blood frozen in his veins. Not Louis.

Z is close enough now to reach out and grab the gun from Ben’s hand, but Ben keeps talking.

“Now, I can’t say that Louis’ father was the most reasonable man. For starters, once he enacted the coup and took leadership, his first command was to have his wife and daughters executed. Poor Louis was only fourteen. Nonetheless, he moved from shelter to shelter and managed to keep his identity a secret the whole time. Finally, he found us. And the whole plan had entered action.

“He didn’t tell us his name for the first couple years. When he finally did, we appointed him next in line for leader of the Rebellion. We told him we admired his bravery and Rebelliousness. And when we, the government, after I was appointed, learned we found the perfect sixteen year old candidate, we knew Louis was the perfect person to get you here.”

Ben pauses for a moment to wipe his nose, and Harry knows what Z’s going to do before he even does it.

A few things happen.

Two gunshots ring out.

Z flings his body in front of Harry to shield him.

Gemma flings her body in front of Olivia to shield her.

Harry hears Ben’s body hit the floor.

Z falls.

Harry's reaction is so delayed. Too delayed. He looks behind him, and Olivia is bawling, and Gemma is white as a sheet, and he looks in front of him, and Tom is standing behind where Ben had been, gun raised, and Ben is on the ground, and fuck.

Z is on the ground. Z has blood seeping into the fabric of his chest.

Harry drops to his knees. Speechless, he puts a hand over the bullet hole in Z’s shirt on the left side of his chest.

His eyes are open and glassy and watering and he stares up and the ceiling and blinks once, and he’s alive. He’s fine. Harry is certain he’s completely fine. Blood can be dried. Tears can be wiped. Wounds can be healed.

Z takes his hands. They’re warm. That’s life, right?

“H,” he whispers.

Harry stares at him, lost for words.

“I love you.”

“Don’t,” Harry says, cradling Z’s cheek in one hand. The blood is spreading. Harry doesn’t know what to do. “We need to stop the bleeding. I...Tom? Get me a cloth. Or something.”

Tom doesn’t move. Z coughs.

“Please?” Harry croaks, and realizing he’s crying. “Anything. I just need to stop the bleeding.”

“It’s okay,” Z whispers. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

“You...the blood. I just got you back...don’t…”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

“You can’t die,” Harry croaks helplessly. “Please don’t leave me again. Please.”

“Tell Louis I say thank you.” Z’s voice is so quiet Harry has to lean closer to listen. “He’s good for you. I’m sorry for lying to you.”

“You didn’t.” The pain in his chest is agonizing, like he’s feeling Z’s pain for him.

“I never…” Z coughs again, and then goes still.

“You never what?” Harry urges tearfully. “Z. Please. Don’t do this to me.”

Z’s hazel, gold eyes glaze over.

_This isn’t supposed to happen._

Harry turns his head down to watch his tears blur the image of his red, bloodied hands.

 


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they go home.

“Harry. We have to go.”

Harry looks at Z’s pale face. It’s been seconds, or minutes, or maybe hours, or maybe he’s been here for years.

_Nobody deserves this._

_“You deserve everything,” Louis says._

He supposes it isn’t everything unless it’s _everything_ , and for a good three years Z was his everything, but everything must include everything disappearing or it isn’t really everything, is it?

“I can’t walk,” Harry tells Gemma hoarsely. “My legs…”

“Tom, give me a hand.”

He’s pulled to his feet, and can spare one last look at the two bodies on the floor, one who maybe deserved to die, and one who was meant to escape but never got the chance to, and then he’s hauled into the summer heat.

He doesn’t feel anything, but not in the blissful way it’s supposed to be. He wants Louis to hold him. He wants to forget. He wants to start over. He wants to restart everything so that he doesn’t have to feel the agony of losing it.

“We’re almost there,” Gemma assures him. She must be terribly distressed, but makes herself sound strong for Harry and Olivia’s sake. “Just a few more steps.”

There are trees, and grass, and there’s asphalt under his feet and he’s wearing no shoes and it burns and his wrists are blistered and a helicopter comes into sight, rotors unmoving, and Niall’s there. He’s standing in front of the heli with his cane and all and Harry wonders if he’s dead, too.

Niall’s jaw drops when he sees them. He’s not surprised to see Tom--apparently, everybody’s absolutely prepared for his appearance--but he does a double take at Gemma and Olivia, like he’s piecing everything together, and when he sees Harry he rushes forward. Scottish Jack emerges too. Harry wants to ask what he’s doing out of prison but instead falls again, and he’s too heavy for Tom to catch. The asphalt sparkles and it’s what he sees when his cheek hits the ground.

“H.” Niall crouches next to him and Scottish Jack tugs him into a sitting position. “Where’s Z? He’s supposed to be here?”

Harry looks at the sun even though it makes his eyes hurt. It’s close to setting. It must be past five o’clock.

“Where is he?” Niall is saying desperately.

“Louis,” Harry gets out in a strangled rasp. “I need...where’s Louis.”

“He’s here. Fuck.” Niall backs up and Jack pulls him to his feet with the help of Tom. Harry meets Louis’ eyes. They’re more focused, and he’s strapped into a seat, and...Liam and Jack are next to him. They don’t say anything. Just watch him blankly. Harry doesn’t blame them. They’re all a little shocked. Louis’ eyes are so blue. Harry wants to get lost in them.

“Harry,” Louis says, and holds out his arms for Harry to climb in.

He looks back at Gemma and Olivia. There’s no room.

“I’ll stay back,” Scottish Jack says. “With Tom. We’ll see things through.”

“Ben’s dead,” Harry says numbly, and there’s a collective intake of breath.

Niall grabs him by the shoulders and looks into his eyes. He’s never seen Niall look like this. “H, where’s Z?”

 _He’s dead,_ his brain tells him. _He’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s--_

“We’ll talk later,” Tom says firmly. “Gemma, in you go.”

Gemma looks at all of them, and then picks Olivia up in her arms and climbs into the passenger seat, fastening the seat belt tightly around the two of them. Olivia buries her face in Gemma’s neck. Louis’ still holding his hands out for Harry to hold.

“Go on, H,” Niall tells him. He must be clueless and scared but switches himself to soldier mode so easily Harry wonders why _he_ wasn’t the perfect candidate. “We’re going home. Together.”

_Together, yeah?_

Harry doesn’t think there will ever be a time when that phrase doesn’t haunt him.

“We’re going home,” Louis says, and suddenly it hits Harry that Louis is _real,_ Louis is alive, and Louis is okay, and what Ben said doesn’t matter. Not here, not now, not ever. Ben’s words don’t have any place in Harry’s brain anymore.

And so Harry takes Louis’ hand. He clambers weakly into the helicopter and collapses into the seat, shielded, finally, from the sun, even though every part of him is burning and screaming to be let out, and he squeezes Louis’ hand as tightly as he can and Louis rests his head on his shoulder and Harry tilts his head back and closes his eyes.

“We’ll see it through,” Tom tells them again. “We’ll get your Rebellion back safely. Don’t worry. We’re winning already.”

Harry has Gemma and Olivia. He has Niall and his Rebellion. He has his Louis, and Louis won’t let him go, and he has a shitload of memories that will never be forgotten but that’s okay.

Tom and Scottish Jack back away from the helicopter as the engine spurs to a start, humming loudly before the propellers start to spin.

He doesn’t know where Leigh, or Fionn, or Matty, or anyone is. He doesn’t know if Nick’s body will ever be found. He doesn’t know the magnitude of his own injuries, or Louis’, or Jack’s, or Liam’s, but slowly, he remembers that there’s a whole Rebellion waiting for them in London, and the people here are only some of them. And he listens to the helicopter and Louis turns his face into Harry’s neck to press a kiss there, and things may not be okay right now, but Harry thinks that they will be.

 

*

 

They land right over the tube station, and Harry wakes to a child’s voice.

“Harry! We’re here! We’ve arrived!”

When he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is Olivia, peering down at him curiously. He feels Louis’ face pressed into his skin. He feels his own skin, and he feels the bottom of his feet on rough helicopter carpet, and they’re home.

The walk to the actual Rebellion is quite possibly the most painful thing he’s ever experienced. Gemma, Niall, and Olivia are the only ones wearing shoes; the rest of them are barefoot, thin cotton clothes barely covering them, decorated in dirt and scrapes and cuts. Jack is limping.

When they finally reach the door, they all look about ready to drop dead. Niall takes the lead and presses the button that’s hooked to a bell in the leader’s office. Perrie’s voice comes out all staticy, but loud and clear, and Harry can’t believe they’re alive.

“ _Niall? That you?_ ”

“It’s us,” Niall answers tiredly. “Open up.”

The lock of the door clicks, and is opened by a guard Harry doesn’t recognize, but the second they’re inside Harry’s legs finally, finally give out and collapse underneath him. He can hear his name being called; Louis’ is somewhere in there, laced with the other ones, trying to get him to stand up and open his eyes, but he can’t. All the energy’s left his body. The last image that swims behind his eyelids before he’s forced into unconsciousness is Z’s glassy hazel-gold eyes, and then there’s nothing.

 

*

 

He doesn’t dream.

 

*

 

He comes to slowly.

The feeling seeps back into his limbs like tar; dripping and warm and drying quickly, so that when all the sensation returns to his body, he’s stiff and thinks his bones might crack if he tries to move.

Everything feels familiar. The pale stone ceiling that he’s grown used to staring at, the wood paneled walls. Even the smell he recognizes. A little damp from being underground, some fresh cleaning supplies.

There’s one thought that reaches his mind when his eyes open, and it’s that he’s been here for more than half a year already and he still hasn’t seen the whole Rebellion. He remembers being told about goats hidden somewhere secret. He wants to lay in grass and watch the sky and forget everything, because it’s now when he starts to remember everything else.

They come back to him in brief, flashing images. Tom. Ben. Z. The glass wall. Himself. His burns, his wounds. Louis. Louis’ hazy, unfocused eyes. Explosions and the Rebellion and being saved, and escaping. Finding Gemma. Finding Olivia. Ben. Ben talking about Louis. Ben dying. Z dying. Escaping again.

It feels crazy enough to be a dream, but Harry knows it’s all real. It all happened, and he’s caught up in the middle of it, and now he knows things about Louis he never wanted to know, and he knows things about _himself_ he never thought was scientifically possible. He’s seen his dead friends brought to life and watch them die again.

Louis. That’s the next thought.

Harry realizes his arm is hanging off the bed, and there’s something in his hand. He looks to the side, and sees that he’s not really alone in this room after all, and there’s someone holding his hand loosely in their own.

In the bed next to him is Louis. He’s asleep, chest rising and falling calmly, hair fluffed and fallen over his forehead. He looks calm and peaceful and like every beautiful thing in the world.

 _I love you_ , Harry thinks. 

“Louis,” he says. His voice is so raw he wonders if he did dream after all. “Lou. Wake up.”

It only takes a moment for Louis to stir. When he turns his head, his eyes are open, blue and sparkling and familiar.

“Harry,” he whispers.

“We’re alive.”

Louis nods, and then winces. “I know.”

“Ben...he’s dead.”

“I know, love.”

“Nick’s dead too.”

“I know.”

Harry breaks their eye contact to stare back up at the ceiling. He’s certain that if he held Louis’ gaze for any longer he’d burst into tears. He inhales shakily, and lets the breath out in a big rush.

“But we’re alive,” Louis repeats.

They stare at each other for a long while.

“I love you,” Louis says. Harry wonders who pushed their beds this close together; if their hands gravitated towards each other while unconscious, or if Louis took his fingers while awake.

“I love you,” Harry whispers back, and he doesn’t even realize what he’s said until Louis’ eyes brim with tears.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

 

*

 

Louis’ office still feels like home.

Olivia tells them, when they appear from the infirmary the next day, that they look like mummies with how many bandages they have on. Harry scoops her up in his arms until she’s giggling. He has no idea how a tiny baby has grown into this. It doesn’t seem real.

The Rebellion has returned with no casualties and minimal injuries. They’re alive. The Cardiff base is gone. Ben is dead. And so even with the serum still in his blood, Harry doesn’t think about what makes him so different, and instead focuses on what makes him human.

The debris is out of Harry’s skin, and he’s had stitches in his head, adding to the other scar already there from Tom’s attack, which he decides not to ask about until later. Louis’ concussion is relatively mild, and it doesn’t seem to stop him from wanting to do things and organize more than he's capable of. Jack’s ankle is broken, but a cast is put on it and he’s given more morphine than Harry’s had in his whole life. Liam seems to be the only one who’s emerged unscathed.

He and Louis say ‘I love you’ a lot. That helps with the healing.

They sit across from each other; Louis behind his desk, and Harry in front. Louis, whose beard has grown scruffy, scrapes at the wood with his fingernail until Harry takes his hand.

Neither of them know what to say, so they don’t say anything at all.

 

*

 

He’s kind of forgotten how much of each other’s lives they’ve missed out on. It’s because he and Gemma kind of fit flawlessly back into place, and Olivia is so witty and clever and quick with her words Harry doesn’t find it difficult to communicate with her.

Harry gives them a personal tour, crutches aiding what has been diagnosed as a sprained ankle. Olivia loves the music room, but is too shy to touch the piano. Gemma is fascinated by the stock of food.

“You really are running a Rebellion down here,” she says in astonishment.

That’s when he gets his first tickle of pride. It feels good.

“It’s all Louis,” Harry tells her. “He does it all.”

“You really love him, don’t you?” Gemma says.

He smiles at her a little sadly. It’s answer enough.

In the hall they run into Liam, whose eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed. He and Nick must have been close. Harry asks to be pointed towards the greenhouse where the goats are kept--he makes sure to add that Louis’ given him permission to be there. Not that Liam would deny him anyway, because he looks not completely present when he gives Harry the directions.

Harry gives him a hug, the first time he’s ever done so, and from the look on Liam’s face, it means a lot.

The greenhouse is in the lower level of the Rebellion, a hallway away from the gym Harry’s spent so much time in. There’s a guard positioned outside the door for some reason, but when they see Harry they let him through without question.

He doesn’t know how he hasn’t been here sooner. There are hanging plants, fenced in areas enclosing growing vegetables; carrots, cabbage, tomatoes, and he thinks he sees some strawberries and lemons too. There are trees, leafy and overgrown whose branches are intertwined with the neighboring tree, and there’s the sound of water dripping somewhere, which Olivia quickly discovers is sourced from a goat lapping up mouthfuls of a small pond. The ground is spongy with real dirt, and the grass is bright green, and the child quickly busies herself with frolicking with the free-roaming goats and rolling in the grass.

Harry and Gemma sit beside each other at the base of a tree coated in vines. She lies back and looks up at the lacy branches and leaves, and waits for Harry to speak.

When he doesn’t, she raises a playful eyebrow at him.

“Talk to me, Haz,” she tells him.

“I don’t know what to say,” he says uselessly.

She sighs and curls her fingers in the grass. “What are you thinking about?”

“I can’t tell,” he replies after a minute. “A lot of things.”

“Name one of them.”

“I just…” He shakes his head, like he knows it’s silly. “I feel like we don’t really know each other...so well anymore.”

The look on Gemma’s face says she knows exactly what he means.

“So tell me something. Anything. Something I’ve missed about your life. The last time I saw you, you were a lanky teenage boy who didn’t fit his own limbs, whose voice had barely broken.”

His shoulders slouch with the weight of his heavy heart.

“Niall. He’s my best friend.”

Gemma nudges him in encouragement.

“He showed up at camp a little less than a year after I did. He was always so happy, you know? Didn’t seem to care about what had brought him there. He’s an orphan. Has been for a long time, like us. He says he had an older brother but I don’t know what happened to him. He doesn’t talk about it much.”

“I met him,” Gemma says. “He’s lovely.”

“He is. When...when I saw him, here.” His thoughts are getting all scrambled together and he struggles to recollect himself. “He’d been here for two years when I’d arrived, because after the fire--I’m sure you know about it already--we were all separated. When I saw him, I thought I was dreaming.”

“Did you love Louis from the beginning?”

Harry laughs a bit, gazing up at the trees. “Hated him. He interrogated me. Gave me a concussion, too...of course he didn’t mean to, but we despised each other. I don’t know how it happened. But he loves me. He told me so.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “I don’t think...I’ve ever loved someone so much.”

“I think I always knew,” Gemma muses thoughtfully. “About you being into men, that is.”

He frowns. “That obvious, huh?”

“No,” she laughs. “I just knew you too well.”

They’re quite for a moment, listening to Olivia’s giggles and the dripping water. It smells like a fresh start. Like hope.

“What happened to you?” Harry asks quietly. “After they took me away.”

Gemma sighs. “First of all, watching you being hauled into that truck fucked me up for a while. They dragged me to some type of camp, probably something like yours but with less soldiers. All girls. I was in shock. The girls in my cabin were lovely; I’ve no idea what happened to them, but together, we got through the hardest stretch. A lot of it included physical labor. Farming and stuff. Then, there was this huge gathering, where a bunch of government officials read out the names of people they wanted to take to a base in Cardiff for government training. Mine and Olivia’s name were on the list.

“All I could do was pray that it wouldn’t be too bad. But when I got there, I was informed of this plan, by someone named Mark Tomlinson. Louis’ father.”

He feels a sting of something that he can’t decipher from sadness or anger or maybe regret.

“They said you were the prime candidate for this project they were doing, and as long as I submitted and contributed to their research, they’d keep me and Olivia alive, and they’d protect you as well. I realize now, they didn’t do such a great job of that.”

“What makes you think that?” Harry says tightly.

“I know they put you through hell,” Gemma responds softly. “The whole fire thing...I tried to stop them, but they were intent on doing it. Said it would test your loyalty or some shit, I don’t know. Anyway, when Ben was appointed, he promised he would do everything to make sure you were safe. He didn’t do a great job of that either. I’m glad he’s dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, deflating. “For everything they put you through. I thought about you two all the time. Prayed that you weren’t dead, but. I don’t think I ever really was sure I’d find you again.”

“You found us,” Gemma tells him simply, shrugging.

“What about you, anyways? What was your camp like?”

Harry picks at a thread in his jeans. There’s a lot she’d want to know, but Harry can’t think of anything she needs to know.

“It’s over now,” is all he says, and she doesn’t press further.

Saying that feels like letting go. That part of his life is in the past. It’s best not to dwell.

 

*

 

Niall stops him and Louis in the hallway a couple days later.

It’s the first time Harry’s gotten a proper look at him since their landing. They’ve all kind of been living separate lives, waiting for when they’re healed enough and ready to figure out their next step. Louis and Harry, Harry and Gemma, Gemma and Olivia, Niall and Louis, Liam and Jack, the Rebel soldiers. He has dark circles under his eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping; Harry knows exactly how he feels, but at least he has Louis to curl his body around during long nights and kiss until he forgets everything.

“Mind if I steal H away from you for a moment?” Niall says, and his words should sound playful but they come out flat.

Louis looks between them, opens his mouth, then closes in and nods. He gives Harry a gentle kiss on the cheek before he sets off down the hallway to wherever they’d been walking.

“What’s up?” Harry asks him weakly. There’s nowhere to sit, so he leans against the wall, his ankle feeling the strain of overuse already.

“Z’s dead,” Niall says blankly, the first time Harry’s heard his name since his death. It sends a stab of horrible pain through him. “Tom told me.”

“I…I know.”

Niall bites his lip, eyes shiny. “I just need to know how it happened. What he said.”

Harry can’t do it. He has to say no.

He can’t bear to say no.

“I…”

“Please.” Niall is close to tears. “I’m so sorry. I am. I just need to know. I can’t let him go, H. I see him every fucking night in my dreams. Please just tell me.”

Harry’s throat aches with the desperate need to cry.

“He was shot,” Harry chokes out. Niall closes his eyes. “He’d said he’d needed to go back and get something, but Ben had blocked the exit. We couldn’t get through. Tom killed Ben but it was too late. Z sacrificed himself for me. He jumped in front of me so he would die and I wouldn’t, and I was too late and he was bleeding so much, and--”

Niall pulls him into a hug. They’re still in the open, empty hallway, and life is still going on, and they cry into each others shoulders, not for themselves, but for Z. For Ed. For Josh, and for Dan, and for Andy, and for Calvin, and for Luke, and for Shawn, and for everyone else they’ve lost.

It’s another let go, like everything is released, like the slate is being wiped clean, and Harry thinks that means it’s a good time to start over.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they're alive.

The week is long and difficult.

Jack, whose ankle has healed well enough for him to go back to being their resident medical professional, tells Harry rawly about the nightmares he’s been having. He says he keeps reliving the helicopter crash, and he can’t get the thought of Nick’s death into his head, even though he never even saw his body. He doesn’t ask about Ben, or Z, or anything, really. He doesn’t seem to want to, either.

Liam still looks the same every time Harry sees him. Tired, sad eyes, and unwashed hair, and wrinkled, unkempt clothes. Louis pulls him into his office for a chat eventually, and when Liam emerges, his face is blotchy and wet and his eyes are red and puffy but his shoulders don’t look quite so heavy. He gives Harry, who’s been waiting outside the whole time, a crushing bear hug, which catches him by surprise but which he welcomes. He thinks all this has brought them closer together.

Niall seems tired. None of them have really slept, so that’s not nearly a surprise, but he looks lighter too after his talk with Harry. Their demons don’t seem quite so daunting anymore, anyway; not with all of them being in such close confines. While a few days ago they all rarely saw each other, now, any human contact seems welcome. Someone to share the pain of their loss with.

And Louis.

Harry thinks he might just be the strongest person he’s ever met. He doesn’t cease his energy, not once. He never gives up. If what Ben said was true, which he hopes it isn’t, but has a horrible gut feeling it is, it’s astounding Louis’ never given up before this. Harry’s trying to figure out the right time to ask him about it.

It’s Sunday evening, and when Harry walks into Louis’ room after seeing Olivia and Gemma to bed, there’s the smell of lavender and the sound of a running tap. The sound comes from the bathroom, and the door is wide open, sending warm steam seeping into the room. The summer heat is growing tired of itself, and is finally bearable. Louis is sitting on the bed cross legged, sorting papers into piles as the bathtub fills.

Harry sits down next to him and kisses his cheek, resting his chin on Louis’ shoulder.

“What’s all this?” he asks, leaning forward to try and make out the script there.

“Just...old files. I was finishing up.” Louis twists their fingers together. “Thought I’d run us a bath.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Harry says softly.

Harry’s noticed that lately they haven’t spoken much. There’s not been loads of time to talk about their feelings or really process what’s happened. They’ve both gotten very good at coexisting, but Harry doesn’t want to just _coexist,_ especially when they need each other now more than anything.

They help each other undress slowly, as if scared to touch, scared to hurt. Harry’s side has healed enough for him to take the bandage off, but the stitches in a deep cut on Louis’ thigh are still in. He doesn’t seem to mind the bandage getting soaked. Sinking into the hot water together, they end up with Louis at the end with Harry leaning back against his chest.

Louis sighs into his hair. Harry’s muscles relax. There’s just them, the steam, the hot water, the lavender scented bubbles. It feels so easy to fall asleep, but there are things nagging at Harry’s mind.

He’s not sure it’s the right moment, but will it ever be? Will he ever get the chance to ask about Louis’ past? Everything is perfect right now; he’d hate to taint that.

“What’s on your mind, love?” Louis asks gently, and suddenly Harry remembers that Louis can read him better than anyone, that Louis _loves_ him, and things don’t seem quite so scary anymore.

“Ben...he told me something,” Harry says in a near whisper. “Before he died.”

Louis hums, a signal to keep going. There’s not so much as a stiffen from him.

“It was about you.”

Another hum.

“He told me...about your father.”

Louis’ muscles tense.

“Harry, let’s talk about this later,” he says. It doesn’t seem like Harry has much of a choice.

“Okay,” Harry replies limply. “I love you,” he then adds.

“I love you.”

 

*

 

That night, when they’re cozy in clean clothes and readying themselves for sleep, Harry dares to mention it again.

Louis looks tired when he sighs and pulls back the comforter for Harry to slide in. They press close together, legs tangling, fingers twisting. “What do you want to know?” Louis asks, sounding more exhausted than anything.

“Everything,” Harry tells him. “Anything.”

“Anything,” Louis echoes. “Well. There’s a lot. I suppose I should start with the beginning, yeah? When I was born.”

Harry burrows in closer.

“I was born in Sheffield in ‘97. My mother was a seamstress who owned a small shop a couple blocks away from our home. My father, my biological father, that is, left once she’d had me; she was eighteen, and he wasn’t ready for a child. She remarried in 2000, a man named Mark Tomlinson. He supposedly was the kindest man she ever met. Kind enough that she was convinced to change my legal surname to Tomlinson. I don’t know what my real name ever was, really. It didn’t seem to matter, anyway, because she gave birth to two girls and a set of twins in quick succession.”

“Four sisters?” Harry says, trying not to think about what he knows is to come.

“The lot. It’s the older brother’s job to protect them, you know, so I really took that to heart. It was impossible not to. My mum wasn’t the most responsible; never learned to cook, and had a horrible relationship with her own parents, which closed the door to any advice or outside help. I loved her though. She was the first one who knew I was gay.” He sighs and pulls Harry a little closer towards him. “Mark, my stepfather, was always off working, so I kind of took over. I didn’t mind. Felt good to be responsible.

“I was fourteen when the coup took place. The first attack happened while Mark was at work; my mother was a wreck. Didn’t know what to do with herself. The news just kept coming. Government officials being murdered. The capitol building on fire. We all knew tensions had been running high since the war, but nobody really expected anything of that magnitude. Mark never returned from work. We assumed he’d been killed in the crossfire of a government attack. His job was supposed to be close to the embassy, so it made sense.

“Of course, that’s when our house was raided. We couldn’t tell if they were government soldiers or enemy soldiers...they grabbed the young twins and tossed them into a truck like rag dolls. I was caught up trying to stop one of them from tearing my mum’s arm off, but they knocked me out.

“When I came to, Mark was standing over my hospital bed. I was shocked. He hauled me out of bed, dragged me down a hallway. I don’t even know what happened. I just...I was staring through this glass wall, and my sisters were there, and my mum was there, and they started hitting the glass and screaming for me and I was so fucking terrified.”

Harry blinks away tears and grips Louis’ hand tighter.

“And Mark pressed this button on a keyboard, and I guess it released some kind of poison gas into the air, because they just...they just died. They died.”

“Fuck,” Harry whispers into the fabric of Louis’ shirt. “I’m so sorry.”

“How I escaped, I don’t even remember. I don’t even know why I was spared, why Mark didn’t kill me too. It was all kind of a dream. I changed my surname to Lawrence, my first name to Tom, and spent the next couple years in and out of shelters. But I was fifteen already, and...well, I’m sure you know this, but they didn’t accept boys over sixteen unless they were accompanied by siblings. So my time was running out.

“Finally, I found the Rebellion. I’d heard whisperings of it, but knew it would be far too dangerous to expose myself like that. I’d be killed or worse, if my real name was ever discovered. They let me in by the skin of my teeth. I promised I’d work for them; I was so desperate, and I hadn’t eaten in so long, and Ben was so kind to me. I was still Tom, back then.

“Exposing my real name was kind of an accident. When I said it was Louis Tomlinson without thinking, I thought they’d kill me, but instead they congratulated me. They didn’t even question that I was a spy. They appointed me as Ben’s assistant and said I was brave. That an insider like me would be the perfect person to kill my stepfather and destroy his regime.

“That’s exactly what I did. I helped them. I devoted my life to the Rebellion.” When Harry looks up at Louis’ face, there are thin tear tracks streaked down his cheek. “I was a stupid kid. I never would have known Ben’s intentions were anything but good.”

“Lou,” Harry says. “You are the strongest person I’ve ever known.”

Louis chuckles a little at that, wiping his tears away quickly like he’s hoping Harry won’t notice. “You think so, huh?”

“I know so.”

Kissing the top of his head, Louis sniffs a bit. “You’re a stubborn thing, aren’t you?”

Harry wraps his hand around the back of Louis’ neck so he can lean up and connect their lips.

“I love you,” Harry tells him, pouring everything he can into the words. “You deserve everything. You deserve more than that, Lou. You deserve more love than I can give you.”

Louis kisses the tip of his nose, then right in between his eyebrows, then over his eyelids, then back down to his mouth.

“Your love is all I need,” he says.

This is the kind of love that will stay with Harry until he’s old and withering. He thinks that, if he were to die now, Louis would cry for him, and that means more than he knows how to express.

 

*

 

Harry stops Tom in the hall on his way back to his temporary cabin from lunch.

He looks surprisingly chipper considering his circumstances. The Rebellion wasn’t so happy to see him back; Harry assumes that’s because of Tom’s murder attempt, and it’s oddly comforting to know his life means that much to so many people.

Tom nods at him once in passing, his usual greeting, but Harry steps in front of him, blocking his path. He blinks, taken aback.

“I have a question,” Harry says before he can stop himself.

“Sure,” Tom agrees.

“How long did you know where my sister was?”

Bodies push past the two of them roughly, jostling them closer together, and Tom frowns. He looks like he wants to protest, but he doesn’t, thankfully; something about the look on Harry’s face.

“I’ve known where your sister was since Ben first told us about you,” he sighs.

“When was that?” Harry insists, trying not to sound so angry but doing a terrible job of it.

Tom opens his mouth unsurely.

“When?” Harry repeats, more firmly this time. Then, softer, “Please. I just need to know.” He doesn’t even know _why._

“About two years before you got here,” Tom replies quietly.

Two years. That’s such an unbearably long time.

“Okay.” Harry nods, like he’s trying to reassure himself. He gets that tight ache in his throat, signalling oncoming tears. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Yeah. Of course.” Tom glances down to the floor, then back up at Harry’s face. “I...uh, I’m sorry for trying to kill you. Ben kind of made me.”

“It’s alright,” Harry accepts. “The gun wasn’t even loaded.”

Tom smiles a bit at this for a reason Harry can’t place. “Well. I had to take precautions. You didn’t really deserve it, nonetheless. Also, I don’t want you to think I’m...a homophobe, or summat. I’m not. Anymore, at least. You and Louis, you’re good together. Seeing you...I dunno. It’s like a symbol of hope, maybe.”

Harry chuckles a little awkwardly and rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t realize you knew about us.”

Slyly, Tom smirks. “Come on, mate. Anyone with eyes and a brain would be able to tell.”

Harry thinks they can be friends.

 

*

 

_He can’t breathe._

_There’s something squeezing his windpipe, and his wrists and ankles are burning, and he can’t see. He thrashes blindly, trying to speak, to cry for help, but nothing comes out. He feels like he’s drowning with no relief, no release of unconsciousness, no stopping. He’s stuck in that state right before he’s supposed to pass out; lungs burning, heart pounding, veins popping in his face and neck._

_“Harry!” he hears._

_He thrashes some more. It hurts. He thought this was over. He thought they were free._

_“Harry! Wake up!”_

_But his lungs won’t stop burning. He can’t move, he can’t see, and then, suddenly, Z’s body appears before his vision, glassy hazel eyes that used to be haunted but are now unseeing and empty. Finally, he reaches his own point of agony, and just when the pain reaches unbearable, he hears:_

_“Baby. Please wake up.”_

And he releases the scream that’s pent up inside him just as his vision returns and suddenly he’s awake, bolting upright and struggling to catch his breath.

Louis is beside him, gripping his thigh with one hand and his shoulder with the other, eyebrows pulled together in worry.

“You were having a nightmare,” he says, and just the sound of his voice is enough to calm Harry’s racing heart.

Not able to find his voice yet, Harry bursts into tears.

“Baby,” Louis soothes, pulling him into a gentle hug, cradling the back of his head in his hands. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I’m here.” He rubs circles right in between Harry’s shoulder blades, coaxing out his strangled sobs little by little until all his tears have been cried. “Just breathe. Let it out.”

When his breath evens out, he’s made very aware of the sensation around him. The sheets are chafing his skin with his own sweat; he’s overheated and itchy himself, hair stuck to his neck, and he desperately needs a shower but doesn’t think he can handle it right now.

“Come on, love. Let’s get you comfortable.”

 _You’re good at this,_ he wants to say, as Louis helps him take off his shirt and strip the sheets off the bed, replacing them with clean, soft blankets. He flips the pillows over to the cool side and helps tie Harry’s hair back into a messy braid.

“What time is it?” he asks hoarsely, sinking back onto the mattress.

“About three in the morning,” Louis tells him, putting a foam cup of water in Harry’s hand for him to drink.

“Were you asleep?” he says guiltily.

Louis gives him a weak smile. “I don’t sleep much, Harry.”

Right. Harry instantly feels like the worst person in the world. Of course, Louis has been coping with his own loss as well, while still running the Rebellion. Harry feels uselessly unhelpful.

“Don’t look like that,” Louis says, kissing his nose and getting back into bed, leaving the light on this time. Harry’s never been afraid of the dark but he doesn’t expect to sleep again tonight. “We’re all getting through this.”

Harry rests his head on Louis’ chest and his fingers find Harry’s hair, stroking it back in a motion that’s so calming Harry thinks he might be able to doze off, but when his eyes slip closed, all he can see are those eyes.

“This is hell,” Harry whispers, muffled into Louis’ shirt.

“It’s far from it,” Louis answers. “So long as I have you.”

“You’re a hopeless romantic, you know that?”

“You make me want to be.”

Harry laughs. “You’re horrible.”

“You’re the first person I’ve ever loved, you know.”

Tilting his head up curiously, Harry searches his face to try and figure out if he’s being serious or not. “Really?”

“Yeah. Being in love...it’s strange. My heart hurts when I think about you because you’re so beautiful. I never thought I’d find someone like you.”

Tears in his eyes, and nightmare forgotten, Harry nuzzles his face into Louis’ stubble. “I only loved...one person. But not like you. Not like this.”

“Zayn,” Louis nods knowingly, and Harry feels a sting at hearing his name again. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ve told you how sorry I am.” He pauses. “I’m lucky to have you with me. If I’d lost you, I--”

“Don’t,” Harry says. “You have me.”

“I do.”

“Z. He...wanted me to thank you.”

Harry feels Louis swallow. “What for?”

“For...protecting me, I guess.”

Louis sighs into his hair, and doesn’t say anything more. They’re together. They’re alive.

That’s really all that matters, isn’t it?

 

*

 

Harry doesn’t know why, but he gets this urge one day to go visit the classroom.

He wants, mostly, to make sure they’re all okay, and have been handling things well. He misses them, of course, but isn’t sure if they know in its entirety what’s been happening, and he feels that it’s his responsibility, somehow, to make sure they know he’s alright. So he goes. Knocks on the door at lunchtime, waits for Perrie to open it, and listens to the shrieks of the children as he waves sheepishly and walks in.

“Harry!” they cry. “We missed you so much!”

Instead of only May rushing forward, it’s all of them, with all their little legs and grabbing fingers and thin arms wrapping around him in a vice grip.

Perrie doesn’t seem to mind that he’s interrupted their lesson. She smiles and stays in the back of the room arranging things while the children pester him with questions.

He sits with them cross-legged on the rug, all of them huddled around him, some of the younger ones practically in his lap. He tells them he’s missed them, and funnily enough, they ask him how he’s feeling.

“What do you mean?” he asks, amused.

“Are you okay?” they all shoot back. “We just wanna make sure.”

Smiling for the first time in a while, he nods.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m okay.”

That night, he stops off at his old cabin before tucking Olivia in (a routine she’s grown used to) and finds, under the mattress, the picture of his parents. He presses it into Gemma’s palm before he goes to bed himself, and when she looks at it in confusion, her eyes brim with tears and her face talls.

“Gem, why are you crying?” Olivia asks as Gemma’s hands shake and she cries and hugs Harry so tightly he feels he might break.

“Because I’m happy,” his sister tells the child. “Because I am very, very happy.”

 

*

 

Louis calls for a Rebellion-wide assembly at the end of the next week, having seemingly worked up enough collective energy and courage to address the problem of what’s next.

He holds a meeting in his office, first, just him and Harry and Niall and Liam and Jack. Liam, now, has grown close enough to the four of them to be included in their complete board, and Harry’s glad of that, because while he didn’t like Liam at first, he believes he may be one of the kindest people he’s ever met. That’s not a title he distributes lightly.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about,” Louis begins by saying. “We’re addressing everyone on Friday. They need to know everything. What happened in Cardiff, Ben’s death and betrayal. Everything. What we need to brainstorm right now is what we’re planning next.”

“Did Ben include any more instructions for how the revolution proceeds?” Jack asks tentatively.

“Ben isn’t a Rebel, and was never one,” Louis says firmly. “We won’t take any instructions from him.”

“I say we go all out,” Niall suggests. “Target their main building in Dublin. We didn’t fail with this one, did we? And Ben’s gone. We’ll win.”

“Their base is nearly three times as big,” Louis replies. “We can’t anticipate their manpower, and we can’t afford any casualties on our side.”

“We could set a trap,” Harry says quietly, and all heads turn towards him.

“What kind of trap?” Liam asks.

“They’re always trying to tap into our communications, right? The only reason they’re not able to is because Niall’s set up security measures and passwords they can’t crack. Well, I’m sure they know we’re based in London. So what if we let them into a false radio feed, without them realizing it’s on purpose, so they think they’ve finally cracked it, but we give them fake information. Say we’re combining our population with Glasgow’s or something. That London is too dangerous.”

“I don’t think I follow,” Niall says blankly.

“Okay. So we give them the false information, say we’re going to conduct an attack on the Dublin base. They prepare. Then they’re caught off guard when it doesn’t happen. In the meantime, while they’re disoriented, we combine our forces with the other Rebel bases, and we hold the attack. Take them down once and for all.”

“A trap,” Louis says thoughtfully. “Makes sense.”

“I think it’ll work,” Jack pipes up. “We can contact Glasgow privately first, make sure they’re for it. There’s a smaller Rebel group in Dublin as well, hiding. We can contact them later, see what kind of manpower they have. So I vote yes.”

“I’m down,” Niall says.

“Me too,” Liam agrees.

They all look to Louis, who takes a deep breath.

“Yes. Let’s do it.”

And so they have their revolution.

 

*

 

Louis hasn’t prepared a speech this time. Says it’ll throw him off. Harry writes notes on his own hand anyway, just in case.

When everyone is settled, Louis clears his throat. Harry stands beside him, this time, behind their makeshift podium, a little in front of Niall, Jack, and Liam. He can see Gemma and Olivia from here, right at the center, sat on a cafeteria bench. He smiles at them, and they smile back, and how could this be hell? Harry has never been happier, with love by his side, love in front of him and all around him.

“Thank you all for being here,” Louis says, voice echoing.

“As you all know, we recently held a successful mission into the government building in Cardiff. It was infiltrated, we saved many innocent lives, and though we had one casualty, his death was not in vain. He will serve as a constant reminder to us; who we are as not just an organization, but as people. There is no one left behind. Not ever.

“I’d like to explain to you all what actually happened, as I know many of you are still in the blue. On this mission, we encountered Ben, our previous leader. It turned out he was a traitor and secretly had been conspiring against us with the government.” There’s a sharp intake of breath. “He has been killed, and his scientific research which he was using in a plot to create ‘superhuman soldiers’ has been destroyed. Overall, the mission was very successful.

“We have all had time to reflect on what’s happened, and now we must move forward and into our next stage of the revolution, which is the complete extermination of the enemy soldiers from this country.” There’s a loud whoop of approval, which makes Harry smile again.

“We will be working with the other Rebel base in Glasgow to build up our manpower and hold an eventual attack on the government headquarters in Dublin. We’ll be using specific techniques in order to trick and outsmart them. With this, the regime will be destroyed. We have no doubt.”

As Louis stops to take a breath, there’s a collective murmur of assent. Harry takes his hand. No matter if anyone sees. Why should they hide?

“We will do whatever it takes. We’ll fight, and if we die, so be it. Let them know that we’re not afraid of them. Let them know that even if we lose, they’ll never win. This is our home. It belongs to us. And I’ll be damned if they’re taking it away.”

The cafeteria erupts in cheers and applause.

And so with Louis’ fingers intertwined in his, with love all around him, with a smiling face and a light heart and a head full of hope, Harry thinks his hands are finally clean. 

 


	38. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i recommend listening to [high hopes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E4povfmX144) by kodaline to finish off the story. i listened while writing it and its a beautiful song that reminds me of harry in this. thanks for getting this far xx

_ Dear Zayn,  _

 

_ I told Gemma I missed you the other day, and she said I should write a letter to you. She says you’re in Heaven, but Harry says you’re happy now. Aren’t these the same thing?  _

_ I have been wanting to tell you ALL about what it’s like here at the Rebellion. Everything is so exciting always! The food is wonderful, and sometimes Harry takes me to see the goats! I miss home sometimes, but not really because this is my home now too.  _

_ My school here is so much fun. Everyone is so nice and kind, and I have a lot of friends. My best friend is called May. She’s very pretty. I love her a lot. My teacher is called Perrie and my other teacher is called Niall. They are both awesome. We all think Niall and Perrie should get married but when I told Harry this he laughed because he says Niall wants to marry someone else. I didn’t tell my friends though, because I didn’t want to ruin their fun.  _

_ There’s something called a revolution happening. I don’t know what that means, but Harry says one day the war will be over and we will all be able to live above ground again. He said when we do we’ll all live together, with Louis and Niall too of course. By the way, Harry is in love with Louis and Louis is in love with Harry. Sometimes they kiss in front of me. It’s gross.  _

_ Don’t tell anyone, but I think they’re going to get married.  _

_ I am eight years old now. Gemma says I’m turning into a proper lady. Harry says I’m growing up too fast. Apparently every day I grow a tiny bit taller. I wonder how tall I’ll be when I’m nine!  _

_ When I told Harry I was writing you this letter his eyes got all watery like he was going to cry. I asked him why, and he said it was because a long time ago, he loved you very much. He misses you a lot, but Louis helps make him happy, so you don’t have to worry.  _

_ Niall misses you too. Niall is Irish and he uses a cane and sometimes he hits people with it when he’s mad, which is really funny. He also does this thing where he swings me around in a huge circle but Harry always yells at him to stop. Gemma misses you too. Nobody talks about you a whole lot because everyone cries too much.  _

_ Gemma is calling me for dinner now, so I need to say bye. Pretty soon Harry and Louis are leaving on a very important adventure to go win the war. In February the war will be over I think! Harry told me that means he will have been with the Rebellion for a whole year.  _

_ By the way, I’m learning a new song! It’s called Sweet Caroline. Harry is teaching it to me. Sometimes I catch him and Louis singing it together. I think you’d like it. _

_ I need to go now, but I love you and I miss you so much. I will write again to you soon! Have fun in Heaven! _

 

_ Love, _

_ Olivia  _

_ (and Harry and Gemma and Niall and the whole Rebellion)  _

  
  


**the end.**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow. i cannot believe that someone actually read this whole thing in order to get to the epilogue jfdjfdjs so all i can say is thank you. 
> 
> again, you can find me on tumblr [here](dystopianharry.tumblr.com)! come yell at me!
> 
> thank you thank you thank you thank you
> 
> \- bella xx
> 
> update: i wrote a [drabble](http://ot4tat.tumblr.com/post/175699977911/pov-of-ur-favorite-scene) for this fic told from louis' pov! check it out if u want, and please let me know if there are any scenes you'd like me to write like this!!


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